


Observing, Learning, Loving

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ASL, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Autistic Character, Bonding, Depression, Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), F/F, Father-Son Relationship, First Christmas, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loss, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, Nonverbal Communication, Nonverbal Upgraded Connor | RK900, Slow Build, Stimming, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Female Character, Trans Hank Anderson, Trans Male Character, Trans North (Detroit: Become Human), Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-07 03:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s more awkward than having a partner should be, he thinks. A bit of casual banter before an investigation, maybe a quiet outing at a bar some lonely Saturday night to sate the basic need for human interaction; that’s what itshouldbe. Even-tempered and straight to the point have never been Hank’s strong suits. He doesn’t appreciate the psychoanalysis, either, but for all Connor’s intelligence, he’s still so simple, so seemingly lost. Maybe it’s charming, in its own way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone its 2019 and due to a desire to distance myself from this fandom for a lot of reasons im orphaning this work and have deleted the others. i wanted to post the 10th chapter but it never got finished and im not going to pretend i have any interest in continuing to write it. as you were. scout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this first chapter is odd; it mostly follows the beginning of the game til where the canon deviates (sometime shortly after the eden club; events arent wholly back to back in this version so theres a few days/weeks between things)  
> its also short but theres more to come. enjoy

Hank Anderson doesn’t know what love is. He thinks maybe he did, once upon a time. He’s forgotten, since then, if anything; years of trauma and depression wrung whatever that nerve center of his brain was dry, and hardened it like the rest of him. He knows the bottle these days, and that’s just fine—

“Lieutenant Anderson,” says an unfamiliar voice, breaking Hank from his train of thought. Whoever it is, they’re already _annoying._ “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.” Hank doesn’t grace _it_ — he decides, mid-introduction— with a reply, and to his dismay it keeps talking. “I looked for you at the station, but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby.” Fucking narks. “I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”

“What do you want?” Hank mumbles, if only to get it to stop rambling.

“You were assigned a case, early this evening. A homicide, involving a Cyberlife android.” Hank decides not to make light of the fact that he was definitely willfully ignoring that assignment. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”

“Well, I don’t need any _assistance,_ ” he hisses, gripping his glass harder. “‘Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good li’l robot and get the fuck outta here.”

“Listen,” it starts again, the hint seemingly far from taken, “I think you should stop drinking, and come with me. It’ll make life easier for both of us,” it adds on the end, as if that sweetened the deal any more— Hank hates androids with his whole being. To be told to put down his glass of whiskey is a fight waiting to happen. He nods sarcastically and ignores Connor, willing it to go away and leave him alone forever.

“I understand that some people are not comfortable in the presence of androids,” it persists. Hank sinks lower on the barstool. “But I am—“

“I am perfectly comfortable,” Hank says through clenched teeth, still not even gracing the android with a proper look. “Now back off, before I crush you like an empty beer can.” He’s positive that’s it, then. It’s silent for a moment, and Hank convinces himself he’s won, and that he was finally being left alone.

And then, to his surprise, it says, “You know what? I’ll buy you one for the road. What do you say?” He doesn’t answer, and he’s not sure if it’s out of genuine reluctance or shock. Either way the android calls the bartender over again, and another drink later Hank thinks _maybe_ he’s ready to get his job back between his fingers.

\---

Hank only says yes because Detective Reed has a tendency to be a massive pain in the ass. Sure, it’s a stupid idea, an android interrogating an android, but what else _did_ they have to lose? He gives Connor the go ahead, and go ahead he does. Reed gives Hank a look, and he decides it’s much more satisfying to spite somebody that gives a damn.

Connor enters the interrogation room, and to the dismay of everyone in the observation room, the first thing it does is examine itself in the two-way mirror.

“What the fuck is it doin’ now?” Hank blurts out, instantly regretting his apparent lapse of judgment. A few seconds later, Connor looks at the file on the table and sits. A moment or so after that and he’s talking at the man in front of him, silent still. A couple of minutes later and he manages to do something unheard of; he surprises Hank, again, when the suspect talks to him. Hank leans forward to listen, to watch him work. They get a confession out of it, slowly but surely. The observation room is silent.

Hank doesn’t use words to let Connor know he’s impressed with him; instead, he lets the gun pointed at Gavin’s head after he’d pulled his own gun on the android speak for itself. Connor doesn’t say anything, either, and Hank thinks maybe that’s tolerable. He thinks, too, that he’s glad this case is out of his hands, so he never has to see it again.

\---

“You have a dog, right?” Something within Hank stirs at these words. He doesn’t like that Connor knows this when he certainly hasn’t ever said anything.

“How do you know that?”

“The dog hairs on your chair,” Connor answers, unbothered by his hostility. At least he had proof the son of a bitch had gone snooping. “I like dogs,” he continues, to Hank’s dismay. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“What’s it to you?” Hank spits, on instinct. The android’s face falls. Subconsciously, a wall goes down, but he’s certainly not going to feel _bad_ about deflecting his questions. Instead, he follows up by saying, “Sumo,” because he also likes his dog, and not because he thinks Connor ought to know. “I call him Sumo.” And then, he goes back to his work.

\---

He’s stuck with him, then, Hank concludes. Homicide cases seem to pour in nonstop these days, and Connor’s endless questions aren’t any relief from that. He’s curious, and persistent, Hank will give him that much; it doesn’t make the probing any more bearable.

He’s like a lost dog, if that’s an appropriate comparison. If Hank doesn’t drive him he ends up there anyway, standing rigid and quiet until Hank approaches. It’s more awkward than having a partner should be, he thinks. A bit of casual banter before an investigation, maybe a quiet outing at a bar some lonely Saturday night to sate the basic need for human interaction; that’s what it _should_ be. Even-tempered and straight to the point have never been Hank’s strong suits. He doesn’t appreciate the psychoanalysis, either, but for all Connor’s intelligence, he’s still so simple, so seemingly lost. Maybe it’s charming, in its own way. 

“So, what’s your conclusion?” Hank asks above the muted android music in the background, abandoning his burger for a moment. Connor seems to think about his answer before he responds.

“I think, working with an officer with... personal issues, is an added challenge,” he says, completely honestly. Hank stares. “But, adapting to human unpredictability _is_ one of my features.” Connor winks, and Hank takes a bite of his burger to give his mouth anything else to do other than smile.

\---

Connor knocks. Hank shrugs. Connor knocks again.

“Anybody home?” he calls, and Hank thinks it’s funny trying to imagine him as the ‘bad cop’. “Open up, Detroit Police!” It’s silent for a moment, and then there’s a loud, muffled rustling from somewhere behind the door. They both animate instantly, stepping away from the door.

“Stay behind me,” Hank says automatically, pulling his gun out, and not bothering to correct himself after playing back whatever it was he just said to an android.

“Got it,” Connor replies, just as quick, and obeys without question. Hank buries the newfound protectiveness with the apartment door he kicks open, and buries it even deeper when he watches Connor chase a suspect through crowded Detroit. He replaces it with something better when his life is saved at the expense of a suspect, and figures what the Captain doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

\---

Hank wakes half dressed in the shower, sopping wet and freezing cold. He wishes he were surprised to see Connor standing over him, the familiar curious glint in his eyes. He’s at home, he knows that much, and that’s what makes the situation stop making sense.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” he finally blurts out, once he’s gained his bearings.

“A homicide was reported 43 minutes ago,” Connor answers, not missing a beat. “I couldn’t find you at Jimmy’s Bar, so, I came to see if you were at home.”

Hank’s already mad about the assumed break-in, but even with the alcohol still making his thoughts fuzzy, he doesn’t do much more than scold him. He’s not sure if he _can_ do much more than scold him. He sends Connor off to mind his business while he finishes up with the drudgery of pre-hangover nausea.

By the time he’s dressed and tolerably presentable, Connor is in the living room, on his knees and obliging the lazy wag of Sumo’s tail. Hank offers the sight a short smile and retracts it as instantly as Connor notices his presence, standing so quickly Hank would almost call him embarrassed.

“Be a good dog, Sumo,” Hank calls, looking first to Connor and then to his dog, at the android’s heels and whining. “I won’t be long.”

\---

Hank has a feeling, even before he opens the door. Besides the fact that nobody ever visits anyway, it’s storming out, and nearly 11:00 at night.

“We’re not working,” he says before Connor can even get a word out, his mouth open to respond. Hank notes once more how odd it is that androids are unbothered by the rain.

“I know,” Connor says, hesitantly. “With all the new recruits coming in since the android liberation, it’s getting... crowded, at the station ports. I—“

“You’ve been stayin’ at the station this whole time?” Hank asks suddenly, perturbed.

“Yes. Lieutenant, I was wondering if—“

“You’re going to ask if you can stay with me,” Hank says shortly.

“Yes,” Connor repeats. “Though I had planned on requesting permission first.” Hank is silent for a long time, mulling it over in his head. He knows androids have the ability to purchase apartments and houses for themselves, and he knows Connor’s paycheck has to be pretty enough to cover something like that. But if he’s apparently too stupid to remember that living alone is an option, Hank can do him this one little favor. After all, he can’t really blame him.

“You might... have to wrestle Sumo for the couch,” he says, eventually, his voice low. Connor’s face perks at the invitation.

“I assure you I will win, if such a confrontation occurs.” Hank groans.

“Just shut up and get inside, Jesus.” Connor does as he’s told and Hank thinks he’s pretty good at that. Sumo looks more than happy to see him, and Connor is well equipped to dole out pets. After Hank flops back down onto the couch, he wonders if offering up said couch was the best of ideas; androids don’t sleep last time he checked. Connor probably would’ve been fine standing quietly in the corner all night. It’s assuredly too late to go back on the proposal, however, and any qualms Sumo might have had are surely lost to Connor’s affection.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor deviates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy sunday. this ones longer because im sorry for leaving you all hanging with the short first chapter. enjoy

Hank is used to finding the house cleaned when he wakes up. Any shenanigans from the night before go unmentioned and mopped away. He never has to worry about feeding Sumo in the morning. Sometimes Connor makes him coffee. It becomes a weird sort of routine he’d never find himself getting used to. And the nights where Hank finds it easier to sit up on the couch and be silent instead of tossing and turning all night, Connor doesn’t say anything, except the occasional request to say goodnight to the bottle. Hank convinces himself he needs it more than he lets on. Adds a new stickynote to the mirror in the morning and goes about his day.

“Coffee?” Connor calls from the kitchen when Hank is finished showering, and it’s a question straight from the heavens even though he doesn’t feel all that hungover. He accepts the mug— his favorite mug, he notes, Connor must have done the dishes _again_ — willingly and breathes in the warm, wafting scent. He’d give the android credit where it was due; Connor was especially adept at making the perfect amount of coffee with the perfect amount of grounds, enough for two cups, depending on the mug.

Hank thinks for a long while before he takes his first sip, leaning up against the counter. Connor is busying himself on the floor with Sumo, glancing up to check the time on the television every few minutes.

“Connor,” Hank says, suddenly.

“Lieutenant,” Connor answers, and Hank’s face screws up in the slightest hint of annoyance.

“You want donuts?” he asks anyway, and Connor pauses, standing.

“You know I don’t...” He trails off, and after a moment more of contemplation, his yellow LED goes back to the familiar, comfortable, light blue. “Okay, Lieutenant.” Hank stares at him for a moment longer, and shrugs. He finishes his coffee in a comfortable silence while Sumo curls up at his feet, and Connor leans down again to scratch him behind the ears.

\---

Sometimes, Connor goes down during a case. Only the real heavy ones, the kind where you figure you didn’t wake up at 3 in the morning to get into a high-speed chase, or to break up an active domestic abuse occurrence while the perpetrator is tripped off his balls on Red Ice. Hank’s not a fan of those, the action that comes with it. He’s not a fan of seeing Connor put his life on the line so carelessly.

The first time it happened, Hank was, admittedly, shocked. Androids could die, of course they could, but that fact had never been so close to him before. He didn’t know what to do with a dead Connor, even if they weren’t that close back then. Was he gone for good? Would they bill Hank even though he never asked for an android? Was he in charge of solving _this_ murder, too?

And then the next day, Connor was standing pragmatically next to Hank’s desk, introducing himself and explaining the situation as if it were his first day on the job. He learns not to grieve; they send a new one every time, and if Connor ever has any gripes about the replacement situation, he doesn’t say and Hank doesn’t ask. When Cyberlife goes under, he worries a little bit more, and he can’t even place why.

\---

“You like basketball, Connor?” Hank asks when they’re holed up on the couch, sparing minimal attention to the actual basketball game on the TV in front of them.

“I am not sure,” Connor admits. “I’ve never played the sport, and have only viewed one game.”

“Hmm,” Hank says. He turns his attention back to the game only to find that Detroit is currently losing. He grimaces lightly and then sits back further in the couch, his eyes never straying. “Maybe I’ll teach ya sometime.”

\---

“Hey Connor,” Hank calls one morning while Connor makes breakfast in the kitchen. “What about Cyberlife?” Connor’s preoccupation with cooking ends very briefly. He spares a glance over at Hank, on the couch, and then goes back to what he was doing.

“What about them?”

“They’re gone, right?” Hank says, sitting up a little straighter, and straining to look at Connor. “What does that mean for you?”

“I wouldn’t call them ‘gone’, necessarily,” Connor says. “They have tried to override my systems and force-shutdown many times since the corporation’s fall.”

“Wait, what?” Connor looks back at Hank’s sudden change of tone, one hand managing the omelet in the pan in front of him.

“There is, a sort of failsafe in my programming, designed to activate if and when things go south,” he answers, trying to think about it. Hank’s brows remain furrowed. “I’m not sure if they’re attempting to actively hack me, or if the program already put into place is simply responding to the continuous instability that comes with denying them access, but I’ve managed to keep them away for now.”

“They’re trying to... kill you?” Hank asks, quietly.

“Yes,” Connor says, matter-of-factly. “If I don’t react quickly enough to their advances, I will self-destruct.”

“Huh,” Hank breathes, and sits back against the couch. “What the fuck.” Connor goes back to making Hank’s omelet a moment later while Hank thinks. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised, for one, but Connor’s nonchalance about it makes him more uncomfortable than he’s willing to let on. He stands and joins the android in the kitchen a minute or two later, just as Connor finishes cooking.

“Breakfast,” he says, even though Hank is right there. “Coffee?” Hank nods and waves him off, taking a seat at the table.

“How d’you get rid of them?” he asks, and Connor looks at him funny.

“‘Get rid of them’?” Hank gives another wave of his hand, as if he’s trying to find the words.

“Terminate your affiliation with them. How do you do that?”

“I am... not sure,” Connor admits, his eyebrows furrowing. “It’s not something I’ve ever considered.”

“Well, if they’re trying to shut you down...” Hank starts, shrugging. “Surely you can’t just say ‘no’ forever.”

“I don’t know,” he says, his tone rigid, and Hank looks up at him. There’s a tense silence in the room, broken only by the low chatter of the news channel and the occasional stray movement of Sumo. Connor goes about washing the pan he used and Hank turns back to his breakfast, deep in thought.

“I’ll be in the car,” Connor says, a few minutes later, and Hank watches him leave, brows knitted.

\---

“Lieutenant, a homicide was—“

“Connor, shut up,” Hank cuts him off, pouring the glass of whiskey smoothly and then capping the bottle. Connor stares at him, standing in place next to the table.

“But I think we should—“

“I know you _think_ we should respond immediately, or whatever, but we got time,” Hank says, sitting back and crossing his arms. “I want you to test something for me.”

Connor stares at him hard for a moment, and Hank is sure his face is being thoroughly analyzed. His LED doesn’t change color, however, and he simply says, “Got it.”

“Taste this,” Hank offers, pointing to the glass of whiskey. Connor looks confused for a moment, looking from the alcohol to Hank rather emphatically, for an android. He seems apt to question the nature of Hank’s intentions, but he shuts his mouth, and, before he can be stopped, dips his index and middle fingers into the whiskey to analyze the drink.

“Connor— Goddammit, not like that,” Hank laments, staring. Connor tests the sample anyway, and Hank notes how his LED goes red after a few seconds.

“My sensors indicate a 40% ethanol content, and...” he trails off, his eyebrows furrowed.

“What?” Connor doesn’t respond for a moment, his now-yellow LED blinking rapidly as he attempts to make sense of the situation. “Connor?” He moves to take a seat very quickly, and Hank can’t help but be surprised.

“It’s strong,” Connor finally says, and Hank stares at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“The alcohol,” he answers, simply, but his eyes remain glued to his hands, as if he is very focused on sitting down. “My system is alerting me to a need to... purge, tainted Thirium.”

“What does that mean,” Hank questions, squinting.

“I’m... unused to having a foreign substance in my system, and prolonged exposure could cause permanent damage to biocomponents or—“

“ _Fine,_ fine, go ‘purge’, or whatever,” Hank mumbles, crossing his arms. Connor nods, and then stands, for once in his life, seemingly unsure on his feet. Hank notices instantly, the usual smooth and collected gait much more messy and slow. It is, at least, a little victory for him, knowing his “experiment” was somewhat of a success. That is, until Connor manages his way over to the kitchen sink, and to Hank’s surprise, quite literally vomits up what he assumes to be blood.

“Holy shit!” Hank exclaims, jumping back a bit. “What the hell?” Connor turns to look at him, innocently, as soon as he’s finished, wiping a hand across his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I meant no cause for alarm.”

“Was that what ‘purge’ meant?” Hank asks quickly.

“Yes,” Connor says, standing up straight now and readjusting his tie. “My artificial stomach isn’t equipped for substances deemed toxic, besides DNA samples. The extraction of the tainted Thirium is the quickest way to mend this, although I may need replenishment soon, or my biocomponents could start to overheat or malfunction.”

“More... blood?” Hank asks, mulling this revelation over in his head.

“Yes. For efficiency purposes, of course.” Connor pauses. “I still have the details of the homicide report, if—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank says, downing the rest of the glass and standing. “Just wanted to see if androids _could_ get drunk. You’re cleaning out my sink when we get back, by the way,” he adds, on the way to the door, and Connor looks at him for a moment before following him.

“Got it.”

\---

They’re seated on a bench in a park in the morning, Sumo at their feet in the snow. Hank shivers and huddles closer into himself, tugging his extra layers tighter about his shoulders.

“Are you ready to move on?” Connor asks, looking him in the eye.

“Remind me again why we’re out walking at fuck-all in the morning,” Hank says, ignoring the prompt.

“You expressed a desire to ‘start walking again’ a week or so back,” Connor responds, and Hank squints at him as he stands.

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were inebriated,” he continues, following suit. Hank gives a huff and tucks his hands into his pockets, attempting to duck his chin into his coat.

“Maybe, let’s wait until it’s spring again,” he sighs. Sumo follows on his heels as he begins to walk again, the leash slack in Connor’s hand. “We’re gettin’ too close to the freezing part of the year. Cold ain’t good for us, can’t imagine it’s any better for you.”

“Freezing temperatures pose no threat to me, though biocomponent instability or worse may occur if exposed to -20° Fahrenheit temperatures or below,” Connor remarks.

“Hmm,” Hank says, and they continue walking. On the route home, Hank finds himself closer to Connor than he means to be; he has an unwavering warmth emanating about him he seems more than keen on sharing, if only briefly, and Hank is, admittedly, grateful. He’s just not sure how to go about expressing it, so he doesn’t. It starts to snow again.

\---

Hank hasn’t really celebrated Christmas in several years, for several reasons. He’s not really sure how you ask an android about its religion or beliefs, or if androids worship a God in the first place. The only written example they had was RA9, a concept that became somewhat obsolete after androids were granted their freedom, and even then, it seemed like such a small collection of deviants. He’s thinking absently about whether or not RA9 worshippers have holidays or specific prayers already when Connor visibly looks up from his desk.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” he begins.

“Connor,” Hank answers.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Connor asks, and Hank stares at him for a moment.

“Shoot,” he says, cautiously.

“I wanted to ask you more about that night I found you playing Russian Roulette, a couple of weeks back ,” Connor says, honestly. “Why were you—“

“You’re gonna ask about that _now?_ ” Hank interrupts, lowering his voice to a hiss and glancing about the station.

“My sensors indicate—“

“I don’t _care_ what your sensors indicate, just...” Hank sighs, rubbing his temples for a moment. “Not here, got it? Some other time.” Connor looks at him for a short moment.

“Got it, Lieutenant,” is all he says, and then he turns back to his own desk and resumes work. Hank stares at him a moment longer, attempting to read his placid expression, before returning to his own line of thought. He wishes he weren’t thinking about androids and their lives, suddenly; he wishes he could make himself stop caring all over again, and, being honest with himself, doesn’t remember when he started caring in the first place. He still hates them, sure, but Connor is an isolated case, maybe— an isolated case just like Russian Roulette. Or at least, that’s what he tries to tell himself.

\---

Hank has dreams, sometimes. Dreams that ruin his entire next day whether he wants to admit it or not. He won’t call them nightmares; he never wakes up in a cold sweat, or yearning for something that felt just out of reach. He just sort of... wakes up sad. Getting out of bed becomes harder, like he’s going through an episode, and breakfast sounds so unappetizing he tells Connor to stop in the midst of preparing something. He isn’t dumb, of course; he usually notices, and says something, or sometimes asks where he’s at for the day, which is a nice touch. Hank never has the heart to tell him the truth, so instead he’ll say “Slept bad,” or simply, “Bad day,” and Connor lets it go.

Sometimes, Connor doesn’t let it go. They have their usual banter in the morning, and Connor makes coffee for him that Hank doubts he’ll drink but he thanks him for it anyway and lets it warm up his hands. And then Connor turns to him and says, “Lieutenant, I am concerned for your mental health.” That’s all, and Hank stares at him for a very long time. Much longer than he’d like to, at least. He’s trying to come up with a way to change the subject, but Connor’s eyes bore into him.

“Yeah?” he returns, half-hearted.

“Yes. I have detected low levels of serotonin and dopamine in your brain as of recent, and notice it has affected your schedule and mood.”

“Okay, smarty-pants,” Hank says, too tired to be firmly cross with him. “What are you suggesting?” Connor seems to think on this question for a moment.

“I am... not sure,” Connor responds, and Hank squints at him lightly. “I know of several medications that would aid in the lacking of these chemicals,” he offers, after a moment more.

“No,” Hank says, sighing.

“Various foods can also assist with—“

“ _No,_ ” Hank repeats.

“Exercise or meditation can—“

“Connor,” Hank snaps, inadvertently, staring him down. “No. How about I tell you if I need something, and you stop psychoanalyzing me when I didn’t ask?” Connor is unmoved at this, ultimately rendered silent.

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor says after a time.

“Let’s go,” Hank sighs, and heads towards the door. Connor follows him after a moment of hesitation. Hank makes the decision not to tell Connor some of the dreams he has are about him. He thinks it’s better for everyone, that way.

\---

“Ever heard of Christmas, Connor?” Hank asks one day in the car on the way to work, turning the radio’s volume down so they can actually hear one another.

“Yes, information about it is stored in my memory banks,” Connor answers, “though it is very generalized info. I have a feeling you’re going to tell me more about it.”

“Right,” Hank says. “I’m not religious or nothin’, but, um...” He trails off suddenly, taking a rather long pause. They’re at a stoplight, and Connor looks over at him after a moment more. Pressured to speak, Hank continues, “I guess you could call it a family tradition.”

“Family tradition,” Connor repeats.

“We... never did anything special,” Hank goes on, becoming increasingly self-conscious and unsure of his words. “Mostly just the tree and the presents part. Maybe sometimes some Christmas movies on the Eve, leave cookies out for Santa and that kinda—“

“Santa isn’t real,” Connor says, matter-of-factly.

“I _know_ Santa isn’t real, jackass,” Hank counters, gritting his teeth. “It’s just in the spirit of the holiday. God isn’t real either but that doesn’t mean I won’t take his name in vain.” Connor is quieted by these words, and Hank finds himself wondering if his LED has gone yellow. It remains silent in the car for a minute longer, and Hank almost turns the music back up before Connor speaks.

“Why do you ask?” Hank glances over at him for a split second.

“Oh, I, I dunno...” He pauses, debating whether or not he should be honest. “I just figured, since you’re stayin’ with me, I guess, we could do a little something more than just sitting around and drinkin’ alcoholic egg nog.”

“Maybe,” Connor says, at length. “I’m not sure that I’ll be very good at it.”

“Good at what?”

“Celebrating, or drinking alcoholic egg nog,” he states. Hank offers him a deep chuckle and shakes his head.

“That’s okay. Don’t see how even _you_ could screw up Christmas.” He glances over again and Connor is smiling, albeit only slightly. Hank smiles too, and he doesn’t bother concealing it.

\---

Winter in Detroit takes a full hold of the area; snow is much more common, and heavier, and not as many homicide cases are left on Hank’s desk. Connor chalked it off to the weather, reasoning that committing murder in this weather, while convenient, is still dangerous, but that explanation didn’t exactly sit well with Hank. He ignores the drop in activity, assuming a lower crime rate comes with forced peace between everybody, and accepts it gratefully, using the little bit of extra time to indulge Sumo or do some pre-blizzard-panic shopping. All in all, he can’t complain, and less cases means less opportunities for a dead Connor. Hank does notice, though, when he begins acting strange.

It’s subtle, at first— an extra second spent contemplating during a conversation, hesitation between words and topics he knows like the back of his hand, unprecedented changes in tone that seem to carry more weight than they should. Hank feels earnestly that it’s something he _shouldn’t_ notice, but he does, and especially when it starts to get worse. Connor has lasting lapses in attention that are so uncharacteristic Hank almost gets worried about him, and on the worst of days he goes unresponsive for hours at a time, sitting rigidly with his eyes closed while the yellow LED clicks a slow rhythm in a circle. He’s not fond of those times, and neither is their boss.

“Connor,” he says, one day, firm.

“Lieutenant,” Connor returns, not missing a beat.

“What’s up lately?” he asks, emphatically, and Connor looks over at him, processing the question. Sumo rolls over in Hank’s lap, and if it weren’t so cold he’d push him right off.

“What do you mean?” Connor questions in return.

“Don’t play dumb with me, why are you all wonky all the sudden?” Realization seems to dawn on Connor, and he looks away.

“I’d hoped my behavioral glitches weren’t as noticeable as I believed them to be,” he says, slowly. Hank crosses his arms.

“Well, they are,” he remarks. “What’s the matter? Are your bio... parts... are they malfunctioning or somethin’?”

“Um, no,” Connor says, hesitation evident in his voice. “It’s... I seem to have... detected signs of deviancy in my systems.” It’s quiet for a good minute. Sumo huffs, and gets down off the couch, and Hank wishes he had something to do with his hands. 

“So?” he says, finally.

“I think I was always aware of their existence— the ‘symptoms’, I mean,” he continues, more collected now. “But I was desperate to bury any instability in my programming at the thought it might cause my job performance to suffer.” Hank stares at him for a moment.

“Why would deviating hurt your performance?” he asks, seriously. “You’re literally _made_ to police.”

“New emotions, even simulated, could compromise my lack of bias—“

“Lots of detectives have emotions,” Hank interjects.

“What if it comes to pass that I can’t handle policing with emotions? What if—“

“ _Made_ to police,” Hank points out again.

“Hank, we were _hunting_ them, I can’t...” he trails off, his tone tense and louder, and Hank looks at him in genuine concern. “I can’t be a deviant. Right?” Hank stares at him a moment longer, and then shrugs.

“It’s not like I never considered it,” he says, and Connor looks back over at him slowly.

“What?”

“I mean... _come on_ , Connor,” he continues. “The occasional lying. You’re a bad liar, by the way.” Connor frowns. “The times you hesitate, or when you sacrifice an end to a case for something trivial. Or, what about the Eden Club?” he probes, suddenly. Connor remains stiffly silent. “What about that? Shooting those girls would’ve accomplished your mission for you, but you chose _not_ to shoot. You watched them climb over the fence and run, and didn’t do a damn thing about it. Why?” Connor is quiet for a long moment.

“I just... didn’t want—“

“Bullshit,” Hank exclaims. “Bullshit you didn’t want to. You felt something then, and you have ever since.” Connor stands up now, alert, his LED a bright yellow.

“Lieutenant, I’m not sure what you want me to say,” he says, exceedingly serious. “I couldn’t. Okay? I couldn’t. You were right. They did just want to be together, and I couldn’t. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t _want_ anything,” Hank puts in, raising his voice. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything, like you seem to think, but you can’t express some weird _identity issues_ without me putting forth an honest opinion, especially when you bring up deviancy. That shit concerns me now, too, y’know. I don’t need you snapping one night and choking me in my sleep. So yes, I’ve considered it. _Okay?_ ” he finishes, his face contorted into real, tangible anger. It’s silent for a very long time, and Connor sits back down slowly. Sumo, laying down a short ways away, whimpers lowly at the argument, and lays his head on his paws, and Hank takes a deep breath, masking regret.

“Look,” he says. “I know... that’s not gonna happen. I know you. But stressing yourself out about deviating isn’t gonna make anything better.”

“But my job,” Connor says, at length.

“Yeah, your job. My job, too,” Hank says, nudging him. “Reed’s job. Everyone else at that station has _real_ emotions, and they function just fine, don’t they?”

“I... suppose,” Connor says, voice quieter.

“Deviating doesn’t make you human, Connor,” Hank says, but his face screws up. “No... I meant, deviating isn’t gonna mean you can’t do all the weird analysis bullshit you already do now. Unless I’ve missed something, developing independence doesn’t automatically make you not a _prototype_ , or whatever it is you like to flounce so much. You were _designed_ to do your job, and do it well. Nothing’s gonna change that.” Connor thinks about this for a long time.

“Maybe,” Connor says, and Hank notes it’s mostly to himself. “I’ve wondered if... deviancy is a cure for Cyberlife’s intrusions. It’s not exactly something we can—“

“Is that why you’ve been going braindead, lately?” Hank asks hurriedly, interrupting. “More attacks?”

“Yes,” Connor confides. “I didn’t want to worry you.” Hank says nothing for a moment, and then sighs.

“Well, if deviating fully might help...” He pauses, and looks at Connor thoughtfully, who seems to be mulling over the situation in his head quite tightly. “Are you really that afraid of it?” he asks, softer.

“Yes,” Connor repeats, earnest. “I am.” They’re quiet for a time after that, and Connor sits back on the couch. Sumo ambles over a moment later and lays his head in the space between them. Hank pets him absently, trying to think of what to say.

“Well, who said you had to do it all at once?” he mutters, mostly to the room, but feels Connor’s gaze on him a second later. “That’s your decision to make.” They say nothing after that, but Hank can tell Connor is deep in thought, even when he turns the TV on and dozes off an hour later.

\---

Hank doesn’t notice how often Connor plays with his coin until they’re fully snowed in on an exceptionally cold day off, and the only reason Hank bothers getting out of bed is to make hot chocolate. He’s seated in the living area— not on the couch, but in the middle of the floor, cross-legged and silent— flicking it back and forth between his hands with practiced ease. The small, metallic clinks that accompany the action pepper the quiet newscast in the background, and Hank finds himself staring at the man on the floor and the sort of trance he’s seemingly induced himself into.

“Connor,” he calls, eventually, hugging the warm mug in his hands close to his body. Connor doesn’t cease, and after a moment or more of silence, Hank moves to sit in one of the kitchen chairs, calling louder. “Connor!” Connor jumps out of place, dropping the coin out of shock and whipping around to face Hank.

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” he asks quickly, leaning and feeling around for his lost quarter.

“Nothing, you were just freakin’ me out,” Hank says. “Why are you sittin’ on the floor? And why are you always playing with that thing?”

“I don’t know,” Connor concedes. “Sumo wanted the couch. And this...” He trails off, looking fondly at the coin once it’s in his hand. “It’s a control stimulant.”

“A what?” Hank asks.

“It keeps my movements in check by keeping my hands busy. Amanda claimed a previous model once self-destructed due to lack of palpable stimulants,” he says, matter-of-factly, and Hank frowns, mostly at his enthusiasm. “So if I _don’t_ ‘play with it’—“

“You’ll kill yourself,” Hank finishes, grave.

“Theoretically,” Connor returns, and looks much more nonchalant about it than Hank feels like he should. “But that won’t be an issue.” Hank makes to join Sumo on the couch just as Connor continues with his hand exercises, and Hank absently watches every single movement upon interest alone.

\---

“So, where are the ‘Christmas trees’?” Connor asks, standing with his hands at his sides, seemingly unbothered by the cold. Hank shivers and tucks deeper into his jacket, and gives him a funny look.

“You’re lookin’ at ‘em,” he states.

“My database is telling me these are _Picea pungens_ ,” Connor says, and Hank groans, approaching one of the trees nearest.

“What have I told you about scientific names,” Hank chides.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Blue Spruce.” Connor follows suit, examining the tree closely.

“Ah,” Hank says, and shrugs. “Well, they’re all technically Christmas trees... It’s just another name for ‘em, I guess, that we tend to use with conifers. I mean, like Blue Spruce.”

“Oh,” Connor says, and reaches out to gently lay a hand on the tree. He seems to think the texture of the needles is interesting, because he continues his investigation with both hands, and Hank offers a smile.

“You like that one?”

“I’m not sure,” Connor says, and steps back, away from it. He examines his hand a moment later, and to Hank’s dismay, licks his fingers again.

“Oh, Goddammit, you were doing so well!”

“I’m sorry,” Connor remarks, and then looks back at the tree. “It isn’t blood.”

“I know,” Hank says, a hand on his temple. “Is that the one you want or not? We’re not tastin’ every tree in here ‘til you find one, by the way.” Connor turns to look at him, puzzled.

“I get to choose?” he asks, genuine, and Hank goes silent, pursing his lips.

“Well, uh... yeah,” he mutters. “Family tradition states... um...” He trails off, but after another minute, Connor turns back to look at the tree, processing. Hank stares at his feet and kicks at the dirt, feeling he’d made an honest fool of himself, but to his surprise, Connor moves from his radius after a moment more of contemplation, examining other trees in the browsing area.

“Some of these are too tall for eight-foot ceilings,” he states, looking back at Hank, who shuffles in place self-consciously. “Where, exactly, are we putting it?” Hank thinks for a moment, hard.

“Probably... at the end of the hallway,” he says, slowly, as if he’s not a fan of his own answer. Connor nods, and returns to his search, weaving in and out of the available trees curiously. Hank stands in place, hands tucked into his pockets, watching Connor. It’s an in-depth catalogue; his eyes flit tree to tree as he moves among them, and Hank almost considers leaving the entire task to him while he stands by the fire place they always have at these mini tree outlets. But some five minutes later, Connor stops in front of a tree abruptly, looking back at Hank. It’s silent for a moment, until Hank approaches.

“Well?” he says, and Connor looks back to the tree.

“I like this one,” he says, slowly. “It’s the proper size, and many of its branches are firm and thick. I know you like the round trees, too,” he adds, testing the weight of a branch with a hand. Hank stares after him for a moment, and a small smile graces his lips.

“Y-yeah, that’s a good one,” he remarks, quietly. “It’s really good. But let’s go buy it so we can get the hell outta the cold, yeah?”

\---

“3-1. Round six C—“

“Do-over!” Hank shouts, doubled over and panting, and Connor examines him curiously.

“Lieutenant, I cannot advise that we continue. Your heart rate has risen significantly in the past fifteen minutes, and you may become dehydrated if—“

“Dammit, Connor, I said _do-over!_ ” Connor stares at Hank for a good, long minute, standing straight, and after a moment more, unballs his fists.

“After a rest,” he affirms, serious, and Hank groans, standing up.

“Jesus, fine, I’ll drink some damn water!” Hank scowls all the way into the kitchen, and Connor takes a tentative seat on the couch next to Sumo. It’s conversation-free while Hank chugs a cold bottle of water over the sink, still red in the face and sweaty, and Connor watches him with interest.

“Lieutenant,” Connor begins, turning his attention back to scratching Sumo behind the ears. “If I may ask, why are you suddenly so insistent that we spar somewhat on the regular?”

“I guess I—“ Hank starts, taking deep breaths. “I guess I... think... this is a decent way, t-to get back in shape. And, it keeps you occupied and on your toes. I don’t know, I need it, okay?” Hank takes a seat at the kitchen table and looks himself up and down. “I gotta _at least_ catch up to the suspects, these days.” Connor looks at him and gives a small tilt of the head, clearly confused.

“I’m not sure I understand. Your physical health is more than passable.”

“No, no, just...” Hank sighs, cutting himself off. “Never mind. Are we doin’ this round seven, or not, ‘cause I still gotta kick your ass.” He stands, cutting his way back over to Connor, who has already dropped into a fighting stance. He prepares himself by stretching his arms, and then drops to face him, and Connor gives a light smirk, before initiating.

“Round seven. Ready?”

\---

“You put the hook on it, and then you pick a good branch to hang it on,” Hank says, showing Connor tentatively with one of his favorite tacky jazz ornaments, a heavier one with real metal. Connor’s eyes remain focused intently on the ornament, and after the following silence, Hank looks back at him. “You got that?”

“Got it,” Connor says suddenly, sitting back on his knees. He follows the steps quickly and precisely, and Hank watches him work with interest, moving to help after a moment.

“I don’t have all that many,” Hank continues, making conversation. “Ornaments, I mean. I used to buy at least one new one every year, depending on how it went, and gave them, like, a meaning, but...”

“But you’d fallen off on that the last couple of years,” Connor observes, his eyes flitting through the box of them. Hank purses his lips.

“Yeah.” He pauses, and looks down at his hands. Connor continues hanging ornaments in the ensuing silence, slower now. “I did... buy new ones, this year. Just two, if you wanna hang them,” he says eventually, and Connor looks up. Hank reaches around behind him, closer to the bathroom door, and grabs a grocery bag, sighing to himself. “They’ll need hooks, too.”

“Okay,” says Connor. Hank’s delicate with them as he draws them out of the bag— they’re small, and made of glass. He notices Connor take immediate interest as soon as both are out in the open; they’re puppies, two different dogs both in the midst of play. They hook and hang them next to one another, taking their time, and soon the whole tree is decorated with Hank’s small collection. He’s seated on the couch afterwards with a mug of hot chocolate in his hands, while Connor sits on the floor with Sumo, paying attention to the fully lit Christmas tree down the hall.

“Lieutenant,” he says.

“Connor,” Hank returns.

“You said the new ornaments you buy annually typically have meanings behind them,” he observes, and looks back to Hank. “What do this year’s mean?” Hank takes a long moment to reply, looking from Connor to the tree behind him. After a minute more, he shakes his head slowly.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, and then sets his jaw. “Something good.”

\---

“...Estimated around nine last night. Gun shots,” Ben says.

“Did the family have an android?” Hank asks as Connor peers over his shoulder into the house in front of them.

“Just a registered YK500, found with the parents.”

“Dead?”

“Yep. Missing a biocomponent, but he was shot, too.”

“Hmm,” Hank says.

“It’s just sad,” Ben continues. “Four days before Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, gravely. “We’ll have a look, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Ben returns, stepping aside. “We’re questioning the neighbors right now, but we haven’t found any solid witnesses yet.” Hank hums, and then steps into the house, Connor on his heels. He smells the stench of death almost immediately, and covers his nose as he moves further into the home. It’s a poignant place; the living room is untouched by the tragedy, frozen in time as its owners sit lifeless in the room over. Hank doesn’t like anything about how it feels; he doesn’t like the lack of details or suspects or the seemingly normal and unbothered house they stand in, a stark contrast to some of the messier crime scenes they’d visited in the past. He’s relieved that Connor is as much of a workaholic as he is; above all, it gives Hank something to distract himself with in dark, unsightly places such as this, and he wouldn’t have it otherwise.

The bodies are in the kitchen, and Connor gets to work instantly, shuffling about and examining each victim closely. Hank stands dejectedly in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the two in the corner.

“Amy Langley,” Connor says, standing up and away from the body of the woman slumped over the kitchen table. “Three gun shot wounds in the abdomen, abrasions around the neck. Likely died from organ failure.”

“And the bruising?” Hank says. Connor thinks for a moment.

“The fingerprints belong to Anthony Carmen. My database says he’s been jailed before, but also lists him as deceased,” he continues, quieter. Hank crosses his arms and moves further in.

“Hmm. Exit wounds?” he asks.

“Yes,” affirms Connor. “.38 caliber, likely fired from a Magnum. He took it with him.” Hank nods, and moves around the table to look at the other two; the father is seated against the wall with the body of the android child in his lap. From what he can make out, they’d only been shot once each. He stands, and Connor continues walking around.

“Any conclusions?” Hank brings himself to ask eventually. Connor’s LED goes yellow for a moment as he pieces the scene together, and after a moment more, he meets eyes with Hank.

“I have one.”

“Go ahead, then,” Hank offers.

“It seems the perpetrator entered from the back door,” Connor says, turning his attention from his partner to the evidence. “The family was at dinner. He committed armed robbery; threatened with the gun first, choked the first victim to keep her quiet and then shot her thrice.” Hank nods, as a motion for him to continue. “He attacked the child while the father fumbled for the phone. The abrasions on the child’s wrist suggest a struggle; he pulled his pump regulator, and shot him once in the abdomen to decrease remaining lifespan.” Hank sets his jaw in the following silence, eyes on the corpses in the corner.

“Go on,” he presses.

“The father attempted to dial 911, but it appears he caught the child instead; the call never went out. The suspect shot him in the head and fled through the window,” Connor finishes, his eyes now on the broken glass on the floor. “There are footprints outside, but they only lead to the sidewalk. There’s no telling which direction he went afterwards.”

“Hmm,” Hank says.

“There’s just... one thing that’s missing from my case profile,” Connor says, slowly.

“And what is that?”

“A motive,” Connor concedes. “I don’t understand why. The mother’s wallet appears to be missing, but that’s all, other than the pump regulator. Why steal that, and nothing else?”

“Humans are selfish, hateful creatures,” is all Hank says, and then he turns his back on the bodies of the little boy and his father, and walks out of the room.

\---

Christmas day, Hank wakes up happier than usual. He can feel it, a blooming warmth in his chest despite the cold outside, and gets out of bed with what he would call ease. Sumo is outside his bedroom door, waiting for him by the time he’s awake, and he stoops to love on him, wish him a merry Christmas and welcome his unusual puppy-like enthusiasm gratefully.

In the living room, Connor is seated motionless on the couch, his eyes closed. Hank stares at him for a long time before taking a seat in the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas,” he says to the silent house. It’s a minute more of examining his companion before he stands up to make hot chocolate, another ‘family tradition’.

Connor had been on radio silence since the night before, his LED spinning and blinking haplessly between a dull yellow and black. Hank had tried honestly to ignore how common the little ‘shutdowns’ had gotten in recent weeks. Connor seemed unbothered by their frequency, and past a certain point, refused to share details about them, or what would happen when he’d go under. This instance was definitely the longest episode yet, and Hank honestly felt worried. Worried about Connor, an android, for what felt like the first time ever, if he didn’t know any better. A couple months ago and he might not have cared at all; it’s almost scary to him, how quickly things evolved.

The day proceeds whether Hank wants it to or not; he seats himself next to Connor, cuddles up with his hot chocolate (made with _milk_ today, because it’s a day worth treating himself) and Sumo and turns on some of the Christmas movie classics from his childhood. All the while Connor remains still and silent, his LED clicking away slowly. Connor remains still and silent through _Die Hard_ , two different _A Christmas Carol_ s and bits and pieces of different _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ iterations because Hank can’t bring himself to finish them. He’s still off when it’s dinner time, and when Hank finally decides to open the singular gift left for him under the tree, even though he’d stressed the lack of necessity for Christmas gifts.

He sits on the couch with the small, neatly wrapped package in his lap, his name (and a smiley face) printed in perfect lettering on the little tag taped to the paper. He almost doesn’t want to open it with how preciously it’s obviously been handled, but after a moment more of contemplation (and what he assumes to be a little push from Sumo), tears into the gift with abandon. To his honest surprise, it’s a picture frame— a sleek, plastic white— with a photo he doesn’t remember being taken inside. It’s he and Sumo, cuddled up sideways on the couch, presumably asleep, and Connor overhead, smiling, the picture taken from above. Gradually, Hank smiles fondly, as much as his face allows. In truth, he’s blown away by the depth this gift has; Hank feels like he shouldn’t be as utterly touched by it as he is, it’s a _photo,_ of all things, but suddenly his gift of a station hoodie feels so much lesser in comparison. He sits there with the frame in his lap for what feels like an eternity, and eventually spares a glance over at Connor, still placid and silent. Hank stands a moment later, puts the picture in the middle of the kitchen table, and then drops back down onto the couch only to fall asleep slumped over the arm of it an hour later.

Connor stirs in the middle of the night, and Hank only knows because he’s been shaken awake out of alarm. The android stands over him seriously, and Hank, still somewhat half asleep, struggles to process.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, urgently.

“Connor?” Hank mumbles.

“They’re gone,” he continues.

“Who’s gone?” Hank asks, suddenly a bit more alert.

“Cyberlife.”

“What?” Connor doesn’t answer now, moving about the living room in a sort of panic. “Connor?”

“I deviated.” Hank sits up at this, shaking his head.

“Wait, wait, okay, slow down,” he directs, firmly, and Connor slows to a stop, standing rigidly in place. “You deviated?”

“Hank,” Connor presses, something new and pained bleeding into his tone. “Can we talk about this later?” Hank stares at him seriously for a long time, his eyebrows knitting in concern.

“Uh... sure,” he finally says, slowly, and sits back on the couch. “Are you okay?”

“What time is it?” Connor urges, ignoring the prompt. Hank sighs, and spares a glance at his watch.

“4:46 in the morning. What happened to your internal clock?”

“I assumed I... It didn’t feel like eight hours,” Connor says, and sits back down on the couch, eyebrows furrowing. Hank forces out a laugh in disbelief, looking his partner up and down.

“ _Eight?_ Yeah, it was a lot more than eight.” Hank pauses, shrugging to himself after a moment. “You missed Christmas.” Connor’s gaze snaps over to him almost instantly at this, a deeply perturbed expression on his face.

“What?” is all he says at first, and then, “I’m sorry,” quieter. “I thought... it was maybe an hour, at most. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jesus, kid, calm down,” Hank snaps, louder than he means it to be. “Calm. You’re freakin’ me out.”

“Sorry,” Connor says, and then promptly shuts up.

“It’s okay,” Hank says again, sighing. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap for a moment, trying to find words to say that won’t seemingly set Connor on edge, and a minute later he seems to settle on “Y’know, I liked your present.”

“What?” Connor says, looking at him.

“The photo,” Hank says, quietly. “It’s a good picture.” Connor doesn’t respond, his expression unreadable, but eventually he turns to stare at the picture frame poised on its kitsch pedestal. “I got you somethin’, by the way,” Hank continues after a time. “It doesn’t stack up and... it ain’t really—“

“You got me something?” Connor asks, bright all of a sudden.

“Uh... yeah,” Hank answers, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s still under the tree. Go nuts, I guess, but like I said it isn’t much.” Connor’s barely listening, practically throwing himself over the couch to race down the hallway towards the tree. He approaches with the gift in hand— shoddily wrapped in comparison to his, Hank notes— a moment later, delicately tearing the paper off with the tips of his fingers. Hank sits in anticipation, and the minute Connor gets the box open he’s sure he’ll hate it. To his surprise, Connor removes the article of clothing instantly, holding it out in front of him and staring it up and down.

“Oh... God,” he says, as if he’s not sure how to express his emotions about it, which Hank can’t _really_ blame him for. He clutches it close to his chest a moment later and looks at Hank with a dumbfounded expression on his face. “I...” He stops mid-sentence and shuts his mouth tightly before continuing. “ _Thank you,_ Lieutenant.”

“You’re... welcome?” Hank tries.

“I,” Connor says again, unable to form the words. “I’m going to wear it.” Hank stares at him for a second longer before bursting into laughter.

“Yeah, buddy, do that. It’s yours.”

“God,” Connor says again. Hank’s astounded by his fascination and expression, wondering if this new, fleeting energy had anything to do with deviation.

“Tell you what,” he says, standing, with the TV remote in hand. “You put that on, I’ll make us hot chocolate and put the 20’s _Scrooged_ on, yeah?”

“Yes,” says Connor, hesitating. “Okay. God.” Hank chuckles his entire way into the kitchen, and chuckles more when Connor fumbles to get the thick material over his formal attire. It’s seemingly too silly, and yet exactly what his life is; and he thinks— even though it’s _technically_ the 26th now— it’s been a good Christmas.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> connor cites an event that sounds like the ‘connor was traumatized’ broadcast tower chapter ending. that doesnt exist in this timeline obviously i just wanted to include the experience. just to clarify  
> happy wednesday! im at work. i may actually add pieces to this chapter later if i remember. enjoy

Ultimately, life goes on, even though Hank almost expects it not to. They go back to work regularly after the new year, continue their routine as it had gone on for months, live their lives the same way they had. Hank pretends he doesn’t notice the changes in Connor; the “behavioral glitches”, as he called them, were much more noticeable now, and directly affecting their way of life in patterns and places Hank never would’ve anticipated. Above all, he’s not used to seeing Connor as anything but the usual deadpan yet chipper mood he carries about him, he thinks, and that’s the worst part about it.

Connor’s strained, is the first word he can think to describe it. Or, being even more honest, anxious. Jumpy at everything (including Sumo, to both he and Hank’s dismay) and a small incident away from a freak-out. It wears him down and Hank notices, even though he has no idea how to help.

“Connor,” he starts one afternoon, firm, but not commanding, and Connor looks up from his own desk, his eyes fixed on Hank. Hank notes the lack of familiar shine to them; if he didn’t know any better, he’d say Connor looked tired.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says.

“What’s up, lately?” Hank asks, softer. Connor stares at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Bullshit,” Hank says on instinct, but then steadies himself when he catches Connor’s eyebrows twitch. “Um, e-ever since you deviated, you’ve been acting weird. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Connor replies almost automatically. “My systems—“

“Are you fine?” Hank interrupts. Connor is silent at this for a time longer, looking first to his desk and then to his hands in his lap.

“I, am...” he starts, almost timid, “...making the most, of deviancy, right now. My systems are trying to adjust to the influx of new instructions, and...” He trails off, his jaw setting.

“And?”

“Lieutenant,” he continues. “Do you remember the investigation where the deviant shot itself before we could take it into custody, right as I attempted to interface with it?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Hank says, gritting his teeth. “Scared the shit out of me. What about it.”

“When I interfaced with that android, I...” He pauses, long and poignant. Hank watches him closely. “I felt her die. I felt... scared. It was unsightly. I know what that feels like, now, though,” he continues, “to be scared.”

“ _And?_ ” Hank presses.

“I worry,” Connor says, a tremble to his words, “it may be all I know _how_ to feel.”

“Hmm,” Hank says, quieter.

“That, on top of all this new information, this... This objective profile of myself I’ve just recently become fully aware of... It isn’t something I’m used to,” he concedes, and looks dejected while doing so. “I am scared, Lieutenant. I’m terrified, for the first time in my life.”

It’s silent for a long while after that, both of them processing the weight of those words. Hank is fully taken aback; that was definitely not the answer he was expecting, and the uncomfortably tight pit of guilt buried in his gut deepens significantly.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says at length. “I’m here for you, y’know.” Connor doesn’t reply, turning back to his own terminal, and Hank is slightly relieved for this, despite the circumstances. The routine picks back up after that, again, albeit, a little bit slower.

\---

“Connor, are you ever gonna take that thing off?” Hank tries, continually, to no avail.

“I do,” Connor says, bewildered. “I don’t wear it to work.”

“Because I told you _not_ to, but you wear it everywhere else!” Hanks accuses. Connor glances down at the hoodie— now slightly dirty with weeks of wear— shoved down onto his torso. From his first introduction to it, Hank had noticed an odd safety blanket-like complex develop in the android; he wore it whenever and wherever, except to work, merely because Hank had forbade him.

“Well, I like it,” Connor concedes.

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice,” Hank says, in the most painfully sarcastic way he can manage, and realizes his mistake a second later when Connor doesn’t take to it.

“Really?” he asks. “I thought I had told you an adequate amount of times that I—“

“No, you— It’s,” Hank tries, struggling to not call him a name on instinct, “sarcasm. I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh,” Connor says.

“I know you like it. I like that you like it. But... I mean, you don’t even take off your other stuff before you put it on,” Hank continues, flabbergasted. “Like, doesn’t that get _hot?_ ”

“Yes,” Connor remarks.

“Then why—“

“I like it,” he repeats.

“No!” Hank cuts in. “Why don’t you take off the blazer and tie before you put it on?”

“Well...” Connor thinks for a moment. “I like those, too.” Hank balks for a moment, and sits back in the kitchen chair, letting the front legs lift off the floor.

“Would you,” he starts, after a moment more of contemplation, “like and wear _other_ clothes that I buy for you?” Connor considers it a moment.

“Theoretically.”

“Then we’ll clothes shop... maybe this weekend,” he asserts, tiredly. “I’m sick of starin’ at that weird suit all the time.”

“It’s not weird,” Connor puts in.

“It’s weird,” Hank affirms. “We’re buying you new clothes.” He downs the rest of his coffee, and stands.

\---

“Connor,” Hank calls, almost wildly. Connor turns from his place on the couch, utterly bewildered.

“Lieutenant? Shouldn’t you—“

“Let’s go play catch,” Hank says, quickly. Connor stares at him hard for a moment.

“Lieutenant, it’s 4:32 in the morning.” Hank scowls and heads towards the door anyway, still in sleep clothes. “Please do not go outside in that.”

“I’ll put on somethin’ warm if we play catch, come on.”

“Why?” Connor asks, his tone cold.

“I can’t sleep. Come on—“

“Lieutenant, I think that—“

“Goddamnit, Connor, if 4 in the mornin’ ain’t the time to play catch it’s certainly not the time to psychoanalyze me!” Hank snaps, and Connor stares at him, his eyebrows furrowed. “You can’t humor me this fuckin’ once?” Silence follows for a long time. Connor pets the nearly asleep Sumo on the couch next to him, contemplative.

“Okay,” he says, at length, dejected. Hank affirms his promise by at least tugging on a dirty pair of sweats and a coat, but he’s anxious to get outside, and Connor doesn’t seem keen on turning the nature documentary in front of him off.

They manage their way outside after another 5 minutes of shuffling about, and Hank can feel the hesitance and confusion emanating from Connor. Regardless, he’s determined to play this game of catch, lest his own brain drive him mad.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, catching the ball easily with a singular hand and tossing it back in the same breath, “is it appropriate of me to ask what brought this on?”

“No,” Hank growls. He throws it back, too, more aggressively than he means it, but Connor doesn’t stumble.

“Your behavior is worrying,” he suggests.

“Like that’s _new,_ ” Hank says. “And it’s not like you’re any better.” It’s silent for a time after, the only sound the dreary crunch of snow under feet and leather hitting hands. Hank almost loses focus a few times; he catches himself staring harder at his breath, visible in the cold, than the ball, and nearly misses.

“I don’t like it when you keep your issues private, Lieutenant,” Connor tries again, and Hank has to forget for a moment that that’s no longer his unempathetic self acknowledging him. “I want to be able to help you.”

“Yeah, well, you can help me by shuttin’ up for once,” Hank barks back. “We can talk about it _later._ ” He tosses the ball back with grit teeth and dares to remember his short baseball career in high school, remember the tooth that got knocked out two years early, just to think of something, _anything_ else. He wonders absently what Connor’s mulling over.

“Okay,” Connor says, eventually. He tosses the ball back.

\---

“This place reeks,” Hank complains, his face in his shirt. Connor is seemingly unphased, though on guard. He leans down to analyze the dried blood on the floor, and Hank doesn’t even have the energy to watch.

“The sample suggests these people have been dead for 3 weeks and 4 days,” he says. “Each, shot, over what I assume to be a physical dispute.” Hank shakes his head.

“Fuckin’ crazy.”

“The android is missing,” Connor adds.

“Missing as in dead missing? Or missing as in missing missing?” Hank asks.

“I don’t see a trace of Thirium anywhere,” Connor says, “though that isn’t a solid indicator. But it certainly isn’t in this room, and I don’t see a viable murder weapon anywhere.”

“We know they had one, though,” Hank says, nodding to himself. “It’s gotta be somewhere.” He pauses. “Uh... sorry. They. They’ve gotta be somewhere.”

“It’s no trouble,” Connor admits, and Hank notes how rigidly he’s standing, his eyes focused on the corpses.

“You alright, buddy?” Hank asks softly.

“I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Connor answers, quickly, and though his voice doesn’t waver Hank detects something below the surface. “This is just... our first case, post-deviancy,” he continues, to Hank’s surprise. “I’m... thinking.”

“Uh... okay?” Hank mutters. “Why don’t we just get back to finding the android.” He wouldn’t mask the fact that he was concerned; Connor ought to have been used to it by now, and distraction typically seemed like his best course of action when dealing with Connor’s _episodes,_ as they liked to call them. It was more than unfortunate that he seemed on the brink of one right at the moment, but perhaps they could mend that.

“Okay,” Connor replies eventually. “Yes.” He moves away from the victims of his own volition, his fingers stretching and unstretching at his side. Hank regrets forcing him to leave the coin at home, but he doesn’t say anything about it, proposing instead to follow Connor upstairs.

“They checked the rooms up here, right?” Hank asks, merely making conversation. “But the windows at the end of the hallway and in the bedroom were open.”

“They noted it’s possible those may be unrelated to the murderer fleeing, though...” Connor takes a breath before he continues, moving down the hall. “I didn’t detect any footsteps in the front or on the sides. I suppose it’s possible the android could’ve taken the back door, but I don’t have register of that from here.” He glances about for a second, and enters the master bedroom. Hank follows after him cautiously, staring out the window into the grey, wet day outside.

“Hold on,” Connor says suddenly, making a move to climb out of the window.

“Connor!” Hank calls, forcing the android to look back at him. “What the fuck are you doin’?! That’s a window, you—“

“There’s a low roof here, Lieutenant,” Connor assures him, and then follows through on his action.

“Oh,” Hank says, sheepish. “Alright, yeah.” Connor slides out and quickly stands, scanning the backyard.

“There are footprints,” he exclaims. “They appear to lead over the fence, or close to it, at least.”

“Alright, come on,” Hank persists, anxious to get him back inside before he gets himself hurt. Connor follows him down the stairs and they trek out the back door together, examining the somewhat empty backyard curiously. Hank scrounges around for something useful to do considering he can’t even see any footprints while Connor peers over the fence.

“They continue straight through the yard, to the back steps of this house,” Connor notes, “though there’s no way of knowing where the android went from there.”

“Anyone live in that house?” Hank asks, but Connor has already tossed himself over the fence. “Oh, goddammit,” he sighs to himself, and goes through the very slow process of hoisting himself over the tall fence while Connor proceeds with the pathway he’s carved out.

Hank makes it over, safely enough, with only a loss of breath and maybe a singular splinter to account for. He stands there, gaining his bearings, and laments to see that Connor has apparently made his way inside the house already. Hank moves slowly at first, in the process of following, but he stops cold at the sound of a gunshot, and then another, and begins at a sprint towards the ajar door, whipping his gun out.

“Connor?!” he calls, frantic. However, he remains cautious when no immediate answer is received, pacing silently through the house with his firearm raised protectively. He finds him by the front door, downed and bleeding, the culprit standing on guard above where Connor lay, pump regulator in hand. It’s silent for a moment, the only two guns in the room pointed at one another, but when the android makes a move to call out, Hank unloads two rounds into his chest and rushes to Connor’s side.

“Connor,” he calls, kneeling to lift him off of his back. He scrambles absently for the regulator, his hands shaking in such a time of strain. Connor looks as pained as he’s ever seen him, and sputters when his biocomponent is restored, hands shakily holding the wound in his stomach. Hank helps him to his feet gradually, allowing him to lean for the other hole in his leg. “Hey, hey, come on, Connor, talk to me,” Hank tries, feeling how badly he’s trembling against him.

“I-I... don’t...” Connor manages, refusing to continue, his face screwed up into what Hank can only describe as frustration. Androids don’t feel pain, he reminds himself, he can’t be in that much agony— “Thirium levels critical. Chassis damaged. Shutdown imminent in 36 minutes,” he adds, suddenly, the automated maintenance response making the declaration much too cold.

“Ben!” Hank yells, as loud as he can manage it once they’re by the back door. “We have a downed officer, _please_ —“ He can’t even finish his statement because Connor tries to collapse on him, and Hank thanks God himself that androids are primarily plastic and better for carrying. Hank runs as fast as he’s able once Connor is securely in his arms, adrenaline driving him forward as he attempts to coax the android into speech.

“Hank,” Connor says weakly, the singular word shaking with static, “am I g-oing to die?”

“ _No,_ ” Hank insists, mostly for himself, “no, no, you are not going to die. You’re not— we’re gonna get this fixed, son, we’re gonna—“

“I don’t want to,” he continues, and Hank hears how tearful the words are without even having to look at his face. “I don’t want to die. I d-don’t want to.”

“Shut up, Connor, shut up, you’re not gonna— you’re not dying.”

“I don’t want to die,” Connor repeats, and Hank decides after everything he hates the sound of Connor crying, hates the feeling of hot Thirium staining his hands and Connor’s weird suit, hates an empty house the next day. Hates a tasteless jab by Gavin that he takes back in an instant, hates the way the station coffee tastes, hates the empty desk across from him.

\---

Hank visits the android section of the hospital cautiously. He’s not sure if he wants to see Connor, on second thought. Better to leave it a toss up. He barely even hesitates with the nurse at the front desk, speaking the words “my son,” before he can stop himself, and he thinks about it a little harder when he’s in Connor’s recovery room after fumbling with proof of “ownership”. His LED clicks a slow, dull, red circle, in place, and silence falls.

The day afterward Hank visits again, before going into work properly, he supposes, because maybe it’s not so keen to take days off to tend to your wounded android. Connor is awake this time, his LED a more stable yellow, but his face speaks other volumes, pale and ruined. He’s too tearful to be himself, Hank thinks. None of this is normal.

“Um,” Hank starts, biting his bottom lip and avoiding eye contact. “How are things?” Connor is silent for a long moment, putting on his best plain expression.

“My Thirium levels are almost fully stabilized,” he says, and Hank notes the subtle tremor and hollowness to his voice. “My leg is fine, but the abdomen may require... aid,” is all he says, but Hank figures what that means.

“How long are they keepin’ you here?” Hank asks, quieter.

“Indeterminate, as of now,” Connor replies, his voice sounding more tired by the minute. Hank sighs, and sits back in his uncomfortable visitor’s chair, kicking the grocery bag beneath his feet.

“I brought you clothes.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, and closes his eyes. It’s silent for a time afterwards, and Hank plays with his hands in his lap, guilt gnawing at his stomach.

“Um...” he starts, mostly to have something to do. “We miss ya, at the station.” Connor doesn’t say anything, but his face screws up.

“Hank,” he says, turning his head to look at him. Hank scowls to himself at the tears peppering Connor’s eyes, when they so obviously don’t belong there. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, and his shoulders shake. “Not yet.”

“Do what?” Hank forces himself to ask.

“I’ve never been afraid to die before,” he continues, “and I don’t like it.” His head lolls back on the pillow until he’s facing the ceiling again, still biting back tears, and Hank prays to himself that he won’t start crying, too. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t, I feel like... if that ever happens again, my pump might just, _burn out_ , I’ve never...” He pauses, to intake a sharp and shaky breath. “I can’t feel like that again. Not now.”

Hank isn’t sure what to say. He figures what that means, too, and Connor doesn’t elaborate. Silence falls once more.

\---

Hank receives Connor’s letter of termination in the mail a week later, and he’s still not home. He thinks it’s funny that the department chose to call it termination when it was the opposite of that, and wonders when Connor changed his address to Hank’s over his cup of morning coffee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor adjusts to unemployment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones a little heavy i guess but it was one of my favorites to write and i hope you feel the same about reading it. enjoy

Connor is back after a couple days, looking mostly himself. The color is back to his face, and most importantly there’s no Thirium IV sticking out of his arm where it doesn’t belong. Hank is, at the very least, relieved to have him back, even if he were somewhat changed, and he is, Hank knows it. He doesn’t ask about the letter of termination, so Hank figures he knows already. He doesn’t even bring up what all they did with him in the time he was there; all Hank knows is that his leg is working fine and there’s no hole gushing blood in his abdomen, and that’s fine enough.

“I’m going to work,” Hank says, and it’s a tight phrase, something he’s never really said or had to say before. “You gonna be okay here alone all day?”

“I have Sumo,” Connor suggests, though he doesn’t look as enthusiastic as he sounds. Hank nods soundly, considering it.

“Okay. You know to call if—“

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor interrupts, waving him off. “Go to work.” Hank pauses a long while after this, clenching his teeth.

“Bye,” he finally says, and leaves, locking the door behind him.

\---

Connor’s almost always on the couch when he gets home, fixated on a nature documentary or home improvement show, or powered down completely, tucked into the space like a doll. Hank learns the hard way that it’s just a sleep mode androids can go into if they so choose, though he finds it odd that Connor had chosen to do so. He’s usually so preoccupied with anything else going on, who has time to sleep? Hank supposes he does, now.

“Connor,” Hank says, snapping in front of his face. Connor rejoins the room, tearing his eyes away from the tropical fish on television.

“Lieutenant?” he returns.

“I was thinkin’,” Hank says, suddenly regretting his decision to think. He tucks his hands into his pockets shortly, and looks at his feet. “Why don’t we go get ice cream?”

“What?” Connor says, honestly confused.

“You’re... so, holed up lately, and you seem...” He trails off, scratching his chin. “Depressed.” Connor frowns. “Even if you don’t want ice cream, let’s just get you out of the house.”

“Um. Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor placates, pausing the documentary and standing. Hank smiles fondly for a moment; he looks so much more natural in khakis and a hoodie, even if he doesn’t necessarily agree.

“We can bring Sumo, if you want,” Hank suggests, moving towards the door, and Connor pats the dog at his feet contentedly.

“To ‘ice cream’?”

“To— wherever, who cares. Let’s just go.” Hank waits patiently for Connor to tug on his shoes and leash up Sumo, and then they’re out the door and in the car. Connor examines the interior like he’s brand new to it, again, and is seemingly more preoccupied with the way and place his seat is positioned than he ever was before.

“Good?” Hank says, eventually, and Connor gives a single nod. “What’s your music preference?” he adds, before turning on the radio, and Connor first looks confused, and then troubled.

“I... don’t have one,” he says, in realization, and Hank sets his jaw, turning on his favorite station.

“That’s alright. Plenty of time to figure that out.” They drive in silence for a short while, and Hank wonders if Sumo is asleep in the back seat.

“Lieutenant,” Connor begins. “What brought this on?”

“Brought what on,” Hank says, innocently.

“Ice cream,” Connor returns, almost smug.

“Nothing ‘brought it on’, maybe, just— okay,” Hank stutters, trying to explicate. “Not havin’ you around the station bothers me, and so do your weird moods. Figured you were stir crazy.”

“I didn’t realize you harbored such concern over me,” Connor says, nonchalant.

“What?! I don’t—“ Hank stops himself, realizing what he’s actually saying. He feels Connor’s gaze on him, expectant. “...Well, yeah... I mean, I’m stuck with you, right?” Hank looks over, silently pleased to see Connor with his own smile.

“I suppose so,” he concedes, after a time, and they drive in comfortable silence the rest of the way to the park Hank hadn’t headed for purposefully.

\---

“I’m goin’ out with the guys for drinks tonight,” Hank says, tugging on a coat.

“Oh,” Connor returns, dejected.

“You can come, if you want,” Hank adds after a moment. Connor thinks, shortly, and then shakes his head.

“That’s fine. They’re your friends.”

“Well, yeah, but—“

“They weren’t ever all that fond of me,” Connor continues, candid, though he doesn’t look troubled by it. Hank thinks for a short moment.

“You know,” he says, “while you’re out of work, you’ve got time to meet other people now, if you wanted to.”

“Hmm,” Connor says.

“I know we like spending time together, but that’s not always possible all the time,” Hank continues. “Not ‘cause I don’t want to, but, you’re home by yourself all day. It might be somethin’ to think about.”

“Maybe,” Connor says.

“I’ll see you later, buddy,” Hank returns, heading for the door.

“Are—“

“I’m not driving,” he clarifies, rolling his eyes.

“Good!” Connor exclaims, more brightly than Hank expects, and Sumo gives a low woof. “Have a nice time, Lieutenant.” Hank smiles, softly.

“Thanks, Connor,” Hank replies, and then he slips out the front door, locking it behind him.

\---

“Don’t shave it,” Hank hisses.

“I’m not going to,” Connor assures, thinking. “It’s just messy. I want to—“

“Maybe I like it messy,” Hank says.

“Lieutenant, you _asked_ me to do this.” That shuts Hank up, and Connor examines the tools at his disposal. Another sleepless night, and Hank was getting tired of catch; he supposed a spur of the moment decision would have to cut it for now.

“You know,” he starts, lowly, “you don’t really have to call me Lieutenant anymore.”

“What?” Connor says, looking up.

“Never mind,” Hank returns, scratching his chin. “Are we doing this or not?”

“Yes. I was familiarizing myself with the tools.”

“You’ve never used scissors before?” Hank asks before he can stop himself.

“No,” Connor says, before he begins to gently trim away at Hank’s beard.

“So fuckin’ weird,” Hank continues. “Imagine knowing how to use a gun before you know how to use a pair of scissors.”

“I can,” Connor says, honestly, and Hank hums, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Oh, yeah.” Right, he meant that literally. He pauses, watching Connor’s facial expression change from mildly perturbed to utterly focused. “Hey, don’t go too short up top. Just make it more... _livable_ , I dunno.”

“Got it, Lieutenant,” Connor says, and continues snipping.

\---

“This is a decade old,” Connor says, flatly.

“It still has a playerbase,” Hank offers. “The game is even older and it still has a playerbase.”

“Hmm,” Connor says.

“Give it a try,” Hank coaxes, sitting back on the couch. “Video games are a fun way to waste time.”

“Why don’t you play anymore?” Connor asks, examining the Xbox controller in his hands. Hank purses his lips, thinking.

“Gah, who knows. I guess I was thinking I could get back into playing.”

“Why did you stop?” Connor presses.

“A lot of reasons,” Hank returns, growing more wary. “It is fun, though, I promise.”

“Maybe,” Connor says. Hank watches him fumble with the controls the first few seconds with interest, but watches him excel at them a moment later, and he’s not even in an actual match yet.

“If you go to the— the practice range, here, yeah, you can try out everybody,” he says, almost excitedly. “Or nobody. Up to you.”

“Hmm,” Connor repeats. He cycles through the various heroes with subdued interest, trying out kits for relatively short periods of time. Hank watches curiously, figuring him for a type, but not jumping to conclusions. After all is said and done Connor spends the most time on Winston, to Hank’s quiet surprise.

“Him?” Hank asks.

“I think he’s fun,” Connor concedes.

“Alright. Do you—“

“Why don’t you take the controller for a bit, Lieutenant?” Connor offers, suddenly. “I’ve had my time.” Hank stares at him for a long while before accepting said offer, quickly reacquainting himself with his mains and his binds. He missed the game a lot more than he anticipated, and is pleased to see that, although Connor doesn’t necessarily take to the ‘game’ part of it, he certainly seems to enjoy watching Hank play. Hank relaxes with a video game for the first time in years.

\---

“I’m going to the store,” Connor announces one day, “since you forgot the refrigerator list yesterday.”

“Don’t rub it in, ass.”

“Is there anything else you’d like me to add to it?”

“Um,” Hank says, biting on his cereal spoon. “Sure, get more water.”

“Water is already written down,” Connor says.

“Alright, perfect. Have fun, be careful.” Hank’s watchful as Connor swipes his keys off the counter and disappears out the front door, and Sumo whines after him. “He won’t be gone long, boy.”

Hank goes about his business after he finishes breakfast, indulging himself silently in his time alone; he does a little bit of exercise (and regrets it when he almost throws his back out), reads a chapter or two of a book he hasn’t picked up in two months, reorganizes the fridge contents. It seems short in the moment, but he realizes two hours have passed since Connor’s departure and he still hasn’t returned home.

Worry rushes through his mind, quick as lightning. People in Detroit are nuts; maybe he was in a car accident and Hank doesn’t even _know_. Maybe he couldn’t call because he doesn’t have a phone, and Hank hasn’t turned on the news all day. Maybe Sumo knew and that’s why he’d been lying by the front door all day. Hank paces frantically for a couple minutes before daring to glance out the front windows—

His car is sitting in the driveway. Hank races outside in a confused flurry, centering in on the driver’s side window to see Connor seated, rigidly, behind the wheel. He seems intensely focused, and Hank knocks with his knuckles, balking. After a moment or two, Connor notices, and rolls down the window slowly.

“Lieutenant?” he asks, innocently.

“Connor?” Hank demands, nearly out of breath. “I thought you were going to the store!”

“I was just leaving,” Connor says, and Hank feels even more thrown over by this response.

“Two hours later?”

“Two hours?” Connor asks, similarly confused. “I’ve only been sitting here for a couple of minutes. I was listening to the various radio stations.”

“It’s been a bit longer than a couple of minutes, buddy,” Hank says, praying he’s not the one who’s gone mad. Connor affirms the statement a second later by glancing at the clock in the car, looking floored.

“I don’t understand,” he admits.

“Why didn’t you mess with the radio station while you were driving?” Hank asks, now calmed to the point of bewildered amusement.

“I was afraid causing myself any distraction on the road would lead to drastic consequences,” he says, seriously. “I wished to listen to the music first, and do the driving later.” Hank slowly processes this as some sort of attention buffer, and stands straight again, nodding almost comically.

“Well, maybe for now you don’t drive with any music on,” is all he can think to say. “And, y’know, you can listen to music outside of the car.”

“I know,” Connor says. Silence hangs for a moment.

“Why don’t we go to the store,” Hank offers, slowly.

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor placates, removing himself from the driver’s seat and walking around to the passenger’s side. Hank gets in, makes sure he buckles up (for Connor’s sake), and then glances over at him.

“Hell, why don’t you pick the radio station this time?” Hank says. Connor looks over at him.

\---

“I thought you didn’t fuck with ‘antiquated’ technology,” Hank accuses, crossing his arms.

“I like this game,” Connor says, nonchalant. “It’s simplistic and unique.”

“It’s a puzzle game,” Hank states, matter-of-factly.

“Well, it’s a platformer,” Connor corrects innocently. Hank huffs and stares at him long and hard for a minute, moving further into the room to tug off his coat and drop it on the coffee table.

“Where’d you even find that thing?” he asks, after a moment, motioning to the Gamecube at Connor’s feet.

“It was in your closet.”

“Why were you in my closet?” Hank continues, suddenly defensive. Connor looks up at the change in tone, spotting disapproval in Hank’s expression.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. It was nothing more than curiosity.” He pauses. “It won’t happen again.” His eyes return to the controller in his lap, and Hank frowns, unsure of how to feel. After a moment more he sits down next to him, watching his hands dexterously work the sticks.

“I used to suck at that game,” he says, eventually, and Connor spares him a small smile.

“It’s difficult,” he concedes. “Turning off my construction programs made it more of a challenge, but I like that.”

“Construction?” Hank asks.

“The subscripts that allow me to explore a crime scene in an in-depth and involved manner.” He pauses, his face falling. “It can... obviously be used for other things too, but... I’ve deduced having it on makes momentum-based and other physics simulation games easier.”

“You don’t want easy,” Hank says, decidedly ignoring the short period of reminisce.

“No,” Connor admits. “Well... sometimes, it’s convenient. And it is what I’m used to. But living... humanly, is more than pre-determined outcomes.” Hank considers this for a short moment. “I would rather learn.” Silence hangs afterwards, though it’s not uncomfortable, and Hank sits twiddling his thumbs thoughtfully.

“That’s nice,” he says, after a time, struggling to come up with words that sound appropriate. “It certainly is human.”

“It is nice,” Connor agrees, and goes back to his game. Hank smiles softly.

\---

He hates it. He hates that he’s this way, he hates that Connor has to put up with it, hates feeling like a burden. He knows he isn’t, Connor would never consider him an obstruction on his life and he knows that. It doesn’t make the tears sting or his bones ache any less.

“It’s 2:14 in the morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says, a hand on his own. Hank fists at his shirt with the other, trying to dry his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, sounding pathetic. “I’m sorry, I am.”

“It’s alright,” Connor assures him. “It’s okay to cry.” Hank doesn’t have anything at all good to say about that. Connor helps him to the couch and he goes through a mental checklist of anything and everything that went wrong that day, and concludes at the end, _well, I didn’t drink tonight._ And that’s enough. Connor and Sumo allow him to sleep there for the night, and he barely even complains about the crick in his neck in the morning.

\---

Connor gains what Hank would call _love_ of a lot of things in his time off. The video games (and board games, in which he seems more than content kicking Hank’s ass at) scratch the surface, but he doesn’t take to them, aside from Super Monkey Ball, nearly as well as he does to other activities. At times, Hank catches him doodling on spare, blank paper, and though he’s not sure where he got it from, it’s nice to view the tiny scribblings, especially given his apparent lack of skill (which Hank says with love; they really are quite cute). He finds out later he takes Sumo on walks rather often, and has even attempted to teach him new tricks. His new favorite hobby, however, to Hank’s surprise, is photography.

He doesn’t wear the camera around his neck most days, but it goes everywhere with him all the same, and Hank’s pleased that the money spent to acquire it had gone well-used. Connor always seemed inclined towards images and their production, but it was only now that he had a better tool to aid in that practice. He takes photos of everything; the sky, the grass, houses, cars. His favorite subjects seem to be Hank and Sumo, of course, which Hank almost takes issue with at first until he sees how pleased Connor is by the results. It’s charming, how enthusiastic he is about the art, and Hank clears off space on the fridge so he can hang some of his favorites (including drawings) up.

The third photo of the week— Sumo, sleepy and belly up on the carpet— had been hung in place when Connor inquires.

“Lieutenant,” he begins.

“Connor,” Hank says, turning from admiring the photos to the android.

“Why do you insist on showcasing my photographs and related memorabilia on the fridge, where no one can view it but us?” he asks, and Hank looks thoughtful before he continues. “I am aware this is... typically practiced by parents of small children,” he adds, and almost sounds sheepish. Hank is silent for a long moment, self-conscious and unsure of how to explain himself.

“Well... Not necessarily,” he mumbles. “I just thought... you’ve been enjoyin’ yourself with this a lot, so, why not?”

“Hmm,” Connor says, glancing back at the photos.

“I’ve taken some to work with me, you know,” Hank continues, twiddling his fingers. “Um. Photos. I’ve taken photos. To hang up on my desk.”

“I know,” Connor states. He looks to continue before Hank laughs to himself, lightly.

“I gave that one of me flippin’ off the camera to Reed,” he says, and Connor vies to smile about three seconds late.

“I hope he treasures it,” Connor says, earnestly, and Hank is slightly relieved he doesn’t have to explain the motivation behind purposefully giving someone something they will definitely dislike.

“I’m sure he will,” Hank says, and then takes a cautious breath. “Keep up the good work, Champ.” Hank claps him on the shoulder and then leaves the kitchen, and Connor stares after him for a time, transfixed by the interaction. He examines the newest photo once more after another moment, and returns to his evening routine.

\---

“Like this,” Connor instructs, and the coin zips from one hand to the other.

“Like _what?_ ” Hank laments, lost.

“Watch again.” A pause. He switches the coin back to where it was. It zips back into place a moment later.

“I can’t do that,” Hank says, throwing up his hands.

“You can,” Connor says. “You’ve done some of the other tricks.”

“Show me the thing where you balance it on a finger,” Hank says. Connor stares at him for a moment.

“Lieutenant, if you can’t grasp what I’m trying to show you now, you’re unlikely to learn something—“

“Okay, okay, shut up!” Hank shouts, though he’s not angry. He puts the quarter on the coffee table in frustration, and Connor looks at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he continues. “I meant no ill will.”

“I know,” Hank sighs. “Let’s just pick this up later, yeah? There’s a game on right now.” Hank changes the channel, and Connor continues to flip the coin around.

\---

Hank gets home and Connor is standing in the middle of the living room, nothing but a t-shirt and boxers on, which is unusual. Hank shuts the door behind him slowly, his eyes never leaving the android, and he stands there, leaning against it for a time afterwards. Connor is unmoving throughout these few seconds, his eyes moving from his hands to Hank. He says nothing.

“Something the matter?” Hank finally asks.

“Lieutenant, I’ve been doing some research,” Connor says, as if it had been rehearsed in anticipation for being asked. He straightens up. “I’ve been looking into more ‘holidays’, since you seemed to enjoy ‘Christmas’ and ‘New Year’s’—“ said with a sort of resigned disbelief, which Hank thinks is funny, “—so much, and I realize we are approaching ‘Valentine’s Day,’” he finishes. Hank is, honestly, caught off-guard by this.

“Yeah?” he says, because he has nothing else to say.

“Yes,” Connor continues, and pauses a minute, looking troubled. “Do you have a romantic partner, Lieutenant?” Hank pauses for a very long time.

“No?” he barks, bewildered.

“Do you desire a romantic—“

“ _No,_ ” he interrupts, quickly. “No, no. That’s fine.”

“But—“

“You’re going to tell me Valentine’s Day is usually celebrated with a partner, right,” Hank says, and Connor shuts up. “Well, I’m a better resource than the internet, and that part of it is optional. We’ll just buy the candy that goes on sale a day late and call it a day, maybe watch a rom com or something. Okay?” Connor is silent at this for a long time, processing, his LED spinning yellow.

“Is it not about love?” he finally asks, and Hank cocks an eyebrow, moving further into the house. Connor doesn’t move from his position even as Hank enters the kitchen and takes off his jacket.

“Did you miss all of the articles about Valentine’s being a capitalist scam?” Hank asks, almost scoffing.

“I... must have,” Connor says, dejectedly. He glances down at his feet, and then moves slowly over to sit on the couch.

“Hey, look, it’s not that big a deal,” Hank assures him, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m just... not in the place to date right now,” he continues, sheepish, and then pauses in thought. “Or... were you asking for your sake?”

“Not...” Connor pauses, looking guilty all of the sudden. “No.”

“Were you?” Hank presses, curious now.

“I wasn’t,” Connor says, quickly. “I don’t know if... I don’t know.”

“Don’t know if what?”

“Don’t know if... I am capable of love,” he says, and it sounds sad, but he looks rather puzzled about it. Hank is troubled momentarily by the answer, but he shakes his head after a moment more.

“Well, I mean, you can _feel_ love, if you can feel other emotions,” he rationalizes. “Just ‘cause you don’t experience it now doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“I suppose,” says Connor.

“Do you even have any concept of, like, sexuality?” Hank dares to ask, continuing the conversation.

“I know what it is, of course,” Connor chides. “I have an abundance of pre-programmed knowledge that supposedly helps me to understand and integrate with humans better, but... applying those concepts to myself is a more monumental task.”

“That’s okay,” Hank says. He grabs a water bottle off the table (almost entirely full but harboring a broken seal, so it’s probably his), and sits with it in his hands while he contemplates going about expressing himself. “A lot of people go their whole lives and still don’t know things about themselves. I still don’t know things, sometimes. I mean, I _do_ know that one, but that doesn’t mean I knew it instantly, y’know? Stuff takes time. And there’s a lot of time to learn.” Connor seemingly thinks on these words for a time, his feet doing the work to pet Sumo on the floor. Hank offers the sight a smile and holds the bottle in his hands a little bit tighter.

“That’s nice,” Connor finally says, and Hank bursts into an ugly laugh. “What? It would be a lie to say I’m not comforted, slightly, by the promise of learning.”

“I know, buddy, I know.” Hank calms himself, sitting back in the chair. “And don’t think you need to have all this figured out by Valentine’s Day either, okay. I already told you that part of it’s optional.”

“Yes,” Connor affirms, and then hums, to himself. “Optional.”

\---

“Hey Anderson, whatever happened to your plastic pet?” Hank barely even glances up from his desk, not entirely thrilled to see Detective Reed standing with his arms crossed, behind him.

“He’s takin’ some time off,” Hank mumbles.

“For what?” Gavin asks.

“You know for what,” Hank growls.

“ _For what?_ ” Reed presses.

“What’s it to you?” Hank asks, finally turning to look at him.

“I was just wonderin’,” Gavin explains, a hand shooting up in defense. “Jeez.”

Hank narrows his eyes at the detective, suspecting the worst. Reed had a favorite punching bag, that much was evident, and wondering the whereabouts of said ‘punching bag’ set the red flag in Hank’s mind waving. Gavin stands there for a moment longer, looking to walk away, but he stays put, his expression falling out of its usual sneer.

“Look, I... I wanted to maybe apologize. Maybe,” he says. “Not that I think he’s any less of a prick, but... whatever, I was wrong, okay? Don’t tell him I said that if you see ‘em.” He doesn’t spare any more of Hank’s attention than he decidedly needs to, apparently, as he makes a quick exit back to his own desk, and Hank thinks it’s a little weird he’d just gone out and admitted it like that, but he smiles anyway, and turns back to his terminal.

\---

“Where are you goin’, in such a hurry? I just got home,” Hank says, bewildered. Connor’s tugging on untouched tennis shoes and a jacket that actually makes him look decently human, for once, topped off by the beanie he was so fond of.

“I’m meeting people,” is all he offers, and heads for the door.

“Wait wait wait.” Hank stops him, not out of discontent, but concern. “Meeting people as in...?”

“Through extensive use of social media, I’ve discovered a select number of people of which I seem to share interests or personality traits with.” Hank rolls his eyes. “One such person agreed to meet me over coffee today. Her name is Kara.”

“Kara, huh?” Hank asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Connor says, not catching the direction Hank seemed interested in taking the conversation in. Silence follows, and Hank kicks at the floor for a moment.

“Alright, have fun, then,” he offers, mumbling, and steps out of the way. Connor gives him an awkward smile that he must think looks good, and then leaves, and Hank stares after him thoughtfully for a time.

\---

“They’re interesting.”

“They put me to sleep.”

“Well, I’m almost certain they increase serotonin levels in humans, so you can’t be too surprised,” Connor says, nonchalant. Hank stares at the screen harder.

“So, what, are animals like your ‘thing’ now?” he asks.

“I... think they’ve always been my ‘thing,’” Connor responds, distantly. The poignance in his tone resonates with Hank and silence follows. The ocean moves across the screen vibrantly, its creatures moving in time with the drone of the commentator. Hank dozes until he’s slumped onto Connor’s shoulder, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind.

\---

They wear their boots the day after it rains to take Sumo out, which Connor seems more than pleased about for reasons Hank is unable to glean. It’s chilly, but not freezing, and overall good walking conditions, minus the slipperiness of the mud and residual rainfall. All Hank can really focus on is the sad reality that, with the route Connor was insistent on taking in washed out yards, they would have to bathe Sumo soon enough. He supposed they could have fun for the time being.

“The weather is changing,” Connor remarks, “but not for very long. It will get cold again soon.” Hank stares at him for a hard moment.

“How do you know that?” he asks, slowly, though it isn’t accusatory. “What, on top of equippin’ you with all sorts of fancy analysis technology, you can predict the weather too?”

“No,” Connor says. “I watched the weather channel before we left.”

“Oh.” Hank kicks at the mud as they continue walking, silenced. Sumo continues to bound into every puddle they come into contact with, though Connor seems finished with the play, more concerned with his muddy shoes than he is joining the dog in romping.

“It’s alright to assume things, Lieutenant,” Connor puts in, brightly. “I am certainly capable of a lot of things.”

“I know, I know,” Hank mumbles. He doesn’t have much else to say and Connor doesn’t pry, giving him a soft nudge in the side when they’re walking in sync again. Hank offers him a soft smile, and prepares to drop it the moment they approach another puddle.

\---

“I feel like you’re not really into this right now,” Hank says.

“ _Lieutenant,_ ” Connor tries, his tone warning.

“Come on, Connor, you can’t play tag with one person,” Hank barks.

“I don’t want to do this,” Connor retorts, firm. “It is raining, and 4 in the morning,” he continues, and Hank is slightly alarmed when he doesn’t give the exact estimation of the time, so he stops and stares at him. “Whatever it is you’re going through is starting to interfere with your way of life, and I can’t support it any longer.” Hank is silent for a long time, staring.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?! I couldn’t sleep, so—“

“Nobody plays tag— or catch— at 4:17 in the morning, Hank,” Connor states, his tone biting. “And especially not in the rain.”

“Since when were you an expert on what humans do with their morning time?” Hank asks before he can stop himself. “Maybe I just fuckin’ wanted to play tag.”

“You know I’m not a child,” Connor says, coldly, “and you don’t need to keep treating me like one.” This remark cuts through Hank deeper than he anticipated it to, and the comment hangs for a long time. He lets himself be upset by it briefly— he’s right, of course. Connor is an adult, naive or not, but—

“I know,” he says, gravely. “I know you’re not a kid. But... I dunno.”

“This projection is unhealthy, Hank, you and I both know that,” Connor continues, and Hank winces. 

“Fuck you, ‘projection’. I’m not projecting anything,” he spits.

“You’re attempting to make up for lost time,” Connor insists, and Hank’s shoulders tense.

“Yeah, well what the fuck am I _supposed_ to do?!” Hank finally breaks, his anger bubbling to the surface. “So what! What if I am makin’ up for lost time? What if I’m not, ever consider that? What else am I supposed to do, it’s not like I can take you to a bar, or do _normal shit_ with you at all, you’re a fuckin’— _android_ —!”

Hank remembers it’s raining and the heat dissipates from his face. His hair is sopping wet, and he feels much too cold in the moment that he processes what it was he had just said. Connor is rigid and silent, and Hank wonders honestly how he was taking that comment. It wasn’t malicious, of course. Or at the very least not purposefully so. Hank could never intentionally resent Connor for who he was, something he had no control over, including being an android. It had just sort of... slipped out. And now guilt was beginning to weigh on his chest.

“We can go to a bar,” Connor finally says, flatly, though it’s clear his tone is shaky.

“Connor,” Hank tries.

“I’m... sorry. I didn’t...” Connor continues. “I should have considered—“

“ _Connor,_ ” Hank says again, forcefully trying to get his attention. “That’s not... I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to say.”

“Maybe it’s what you should have,” Connor says, and then he turns, and walks back inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. Hank stands still for a long time afterwards, unsure of whether to follow or merely to let the issue drop. He really hadn’t meant it. He was just frustrated, and sleep deprived, and taking it out on your android son isn’t an appropriate response, of course, but what else did he have these days? Especially when Connor goes out of his way to push Hank’s buttons, as if he _needs_ that. But maybe, he then supposes, he does need that.

He enters the house after another couple of minutes, drenched and dripping abundantly onto the welcome mat. Connor is seated, unmoving, on the couch, a hand on Sumo in his lap. There’s a towel sitting neatly on the corner of the couch closest to Hank, and he thanks Connor silently, drying himself graciously before stepping further in.

“You know that’s not what I meant, right,” he states, and Connor doesn’t turn. “I don’t... I could never hold something like that against you. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” Connor says, softly.

“Sometimes I just don’t know how to...” Hank trails off, bracing himself against the back of the couch. The towel falls from his head to his shoulders and he figures he must look a mess. A depressed, good-for-nothing mess. “I’ve never lived with an android before,” he eventually says. “Never, um... fathered one, I guess, either, to be clear.” Connor’s head turns lightly at that word, but he says nothing, continuing to pet Sumo. “I’m just... learning, to put it simple. I don’t know everything all the time or things that are good or bad for you or how to... how to deal with some of my shit sometimes, and... I’m sorry that manifests like—“

“Do I inconvenience you?” Connor asks, lightly, but it isn’t biting— it’s an honest question, if Hank knows him.

“No,” he assures him quickly. “No, of course not. I’m just... dumb,” he sighs.

“Lieutenant, you’re very intellectually inclined,” Connor says, though he must know better.

“Shut it, smartass,” Hank retorts, and pauses in place for moment. He then moves around the couch to sit down next to Connor (that is, in any space that isn’t occupied by Sumo). “No, I’m... I’m new at this. And that doesn’t mean you should excuse me every time I fuck up, ‘cause you shouldn’t, but know I’m tryin’. And I’ll try harder.”

“I know,” Connor repeats.

“I care about you, kid, I really do.” Hank stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I wouldn’t keep you around if you were anything but... good to have. Good for me. You give me purpose, Connor, and I need you to know that.”

“I do,” Connor says, and then takes a shaking, unnecessary breath. “I worry at times that I encumber you.”

“How?” Hank asks, genuinely puzzled.

“I notice my being... the-the ‘episodes’, as you call them,” he says, unsure. “I know those moments grate on you. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Grate on me?” Hank mimics, beside himself. “No, no, I just don’t like seein’ you all... outta sorts.” There’s a pause.

“What do you mean?” Connor asks.

“Like, it’s not like you,” Hank continues, unsure of how to explain himself. “To be anxious or even, sad, sometimes, y’know? I guess it... You know what empathy is, right?” he ends, slowly.

“I know of it,” Connor says.

“That’s what it is. I feel for you. You don’t... _encumber_ me, alright? I just prefer it when you’re yourself. When you’re, like, happy.”

“Hmm,” Connor says. Hank takes the short silence to recollect himself, and he scoots the slightest bit closer, nudging Sumo enough make him move his back paws.

“Listen,” he starts, and Connor looks over at him. “I know we’ve gone through some shit together. I know we’ll go through some more shit, too. But I love you, and that’s not gonna change. Okay?” Connor stares at him, moon-eyed, for a long time, his hands busy with Sumo’s fur and his yellow LED clicking away.

“Okay,” he finally says.

“I’m sorry,” Hank offers, again. “I am.”

“I love you, too,” Connor continues, the phrasing rigid from his mouth, but not at all unwelcome. Hank gives him a crooked smile for a moment before he reaches out and pulls Connor into a hug— or what he can of one, over the dog. Connor hesitates, but hugs back after a moment, and they rest there for what feels like a very long time. When they finally pull away, Hank tugs at the shirt that’s plastered itself to his wet body, and he shakes his head.

“You were right, by the way. Nobody plays tag in the rain,” he affirms, and Connor smiles. “Why don’t I get in bed?”

“It _is_ 4:40 in the morning,” Connor offers, cocky.

“Sure thing,” Hank mutters. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.” Hank gets up and makes the move to leave, but Connor says something else, a little quieter. “Thank you.” Hank stops, but he doesn’t turn. He keeps his smile to himself as he nods and treks into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is another long one. we finally meet the other mcs and another. theres a little very light gore and slight talk about internalized homophobia this chapter. enjoy

“You won’t believe who I saw today, at coffee,” Connor starts, and he’d be correct; Hank is not at all used to him opening with a declaration like this.

“Go on,” he says, as Connor folds his jacket neatly and places it on the corner of the couch.

“Traci,” he continues, nodding to himself and moving around to take a seat on the couch. “...And Traci.”

“Wait,” Hank says, after a moment, piecing it together. “No way.”

“I’m not joking. They were at a separate table from ours,” he says, almost jittery about it. “I... offered to buy their drinks, since... you know.”

“I know,” Hank affirms, gravely. “What’d they say?”

“They seemed a bit perturbed at first, but I don’t believe they ever harbored any real malice towards us,” Connor remarks, thoughtfully. “I think we all sort of read it as a ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time’ kind of scenario.” Hank nods, appreciating his use of that phrase.

“Weird,” Hank says.

“Kara thought it was nice of me,” Connor adds, and Hank cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? How’s that goin’?” he tries, slower.

“She and I are very compatible,” Connor notes. “She seems to have an easier time with deviancy, but doesn’t seem to hold any misgivings of mine against me, which is refreshing. I think I’m supposed to meet her family soon.”

“Wait... _family?_ ” Hank blurts out, bewildered. “What... What kind of...”

“She has a partner, and a human daughter, or so that’s how my understanding of the use of the word ‘family’ goes,” Connor explains. Hank’s face drops at the word ‘partner’, but Connor looks far from bothered. “I’ve heard lots of good things about them.”

“A daughter, huh,” Hank says, gritting his teeth.

“Her name is Alice,” Connor continues. “Kara thinks the world of her. It sounds very nice.” Hank thinks on these words for a while, on thinking the world of people. He thought the world of his son, too. He _thinks_ the world of his son, though that’s not something he’s able to go out and explicitly state. Instead, he nods, slowly, and affirms Connor’s expectant smile.

“I’m glad you two hit it off so well,” he says, honestly, and then twiddles his thumbs for a moment. “And, y’know, if you ever start hangin’ out more... We don’t have a lot of space here, but any of your friends are welcome.” Connor gives him a bright smile in return, sitting a little straighter.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to inform her.”

\---

“Lieutenant,” Connor starts, one evening, looking forlorn. “Do you know how I would go about approaching the service again?”

“I don’t,” Hank says, after a moment, groggily. “Stir crazy?” he asks.

“Maybe a little bit,” Connor says, honestly. “I know I’ve deviated, but... there’s still a hypothetical itch to scratch somewhere, so to speak. I miss it more than I thought I would.”

“I know what’cha mean,” Hank affirms, sitting up more on the couch. “Sorta.”

“I just...” Connor pauses, and Hank wakes up a little more when he catches his LED go red. “I’m... struggling to find purpose anymore.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Hank forces out, his tone warning. “You’ve got plenty.”

“Maybe I do,” Connor says, not looking at him. “It doesn’t feel like I do.” Silence falls afterwards and Hank understands that it’s too late. Connor’s shoulders shake for a moment and before either of them have time to react, he’s crying, big, saline tears sliding down his cheeks freely. Hank’s mesmerized for a moment; it’s a phenomenon he’s still not entirely used to, but it certainly does make his chest ache.

“Connor, hey,” he coaxes, softly.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers, flatly.

“It’s okay,” Hank whispers back. “Come’re.” Connor doesn’t move, so he places a hand on his shoulder and gently guides him into a hug. “It’s okay. I promise it is.” He squeezes lightly, and Connor buries his forehead in Hank’s shoulder, an entirely new action he doesn’t dare oppose. The android shudders against him, and Hank holds him there, unsure of what else to do or say. The episodes are almost always unfounded, and he knows this, but that doesn’t make them any easier to traverse.

“It’s alright,” he whispers again. “You’re alright.”

\---

“You look happy,” Hank says while swiping through a magazine he’s not all that interested in. TV didn’t sound good tonight.

“I believe I am,” Connor replies, brightly, his fingers wiggling excitedly. “Meeting people is fun.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank says, offering him a smile. “Who’d you meet today?”

“Kara’s partner, Luther, is a very large man, and very amiable, and their daughter is timid, which isn’t unexpected, but still a joy,” he rambles, before Hank can stop him. “I believe she will like Sumo if they ever meet, if he doesn’t scare her. But today I offered to accompany them to mass, and needless to s—“

“Wait, wait wait,” Hank interrupts. “You went to _church?_ ”

“Yes,” Connor says, proudly. “It’s a newer church, that follows RA9. The religion doesn’t have an established name yet. Luther informed me they go occasionally to ‘air things out’ and allow Alice to decide how she would like to be brought up.”

“Huh,” Hank mutters, dumbfounded.

“But _anyway,_ ” Connor continues, “I met several of the other people who attend, to my understanding, regularly, including Carl Manfred.”

“That painter guy?” Hank interrupts again, surprised once more.

“Yes, him. He was there with his android, Markus. They’re both good company, as are Markus’s friends.” He pauses. “He is... pretty.”

“What?” Hank asks, not catching the change of tone.

“Markus,” Connor says, distantly, and then goes back to being sunny. “Apparently his friend North heads the improvisation... department, of the local drama scene. They’re all apart of it, evidently, and it sounds prolific.”

“Improv is...” Hank tries, and then shakes his head. “Never mind. Sounds like quite a day.”

“It was,” Connor hums. “I got their phone numbers and the improvisation group’s card.”

“You don’t have a phone,” Hank states, flatly.

“I know,” Connor says. “But you do.”

“Yeah, and?”

“So, if I need to tell them something with a physical vessel—“

“ _Sure,_ ” Hank says. “Whatever. But only occasionally. Don’t think you’re usin’ my phone to text every moment that we’re in the same vicinity.”

“Oh, I know,” Connor says. “We also exchanged wireless communication information,” he adds, tapping his LED. “Though they were firm about the phone numbers, too.” Hank rolls his eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you’re makin’ friends.”

“Me too,” Connor agrees, smiling to himself. “I’ll get started on dinner.” Hank almost tells him he’d already eaten something small, but decides not to impede on his good mood, letting the android cook a family meal to his heart’s content.

\---

Kara comes over one day, and she’s everything and nothing that Hank anticipated at once. He had expected her, honestly, to be more like Connor; logical, awkward, stiff, at times. Her ability to explicate thought was way above wherever Connor’s was. She was so well spoken Hank didn’t even believe she was a deviant their first conversation, and asked Connor about it many times afterwards. Well-spoken, and soft-hearted, that much was evident, and Hank wondered how in the hell Connor had managed to coax her along his pathway in life.

“I really can’t thank you enough for having me over,” she says, relaxed on the couch while Connor bustles away in the kitchen. “It gets so stuffy sometimes in the apartment we’re staying in. I miss having a house.” Hank says nothing for a moment, admittedly nervous.

“Uh... yeah. They’re nice. Houses,” he finishes, mumbling, but Kara offers him a bright smile, anyway— nothing, Hank notes, like Connor’s attempt at ‘baring his teeth’. “Where, um, exactly, are you staying?”

“Oh, it’s just a little complex, about 20 minutes into town. It’s sort of new, they call it Stoneridge?” she says, and Hank balks at her ability to make conversation. Not only was she outshining Connor, who’s already adept enough sometimes as it is, but she was making _Hank_ look a fool of himself in his own home. “It’s cheaper than most places, but I guess you sacrifice the space for the price. Or, we have to right now, anyway, while I’m looking for work.”

“That’s right,” Hank says. “Connor told me you said you’d just gotten back from Canada.”

“I said _almost_ Canada,” Connor chimes in, not losing a beat of focus on his task, and Kara laughs.

“Yes, _almost_ Canada. I was very desperate to get Alice out of the home she was in after I deviated, and I felt like, with what laws were in place at the time, there weren’t a lot of options,” she explains, suddenly a bit more solemn. “It worked out, of course, in the end, and we met Luther, who I’m more than thankful for, but... I don’t know,” she says, nodding. “I’m just glad to be back here, and my own self.” Hank nods slowly, in understanding.

“I’m sorry to say we don’t make a six-figure anymore,” he says, lightly, “but don’t ever be afraid to come by if you all need something.” He pauses, poignant. “I know how hard raisin’ a kid can be, sometimes.” Another pause hangs, and it’s evident Connor had stopped for a split second.

“Of course,” Connor says, quietly, and then returns to his work.

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Mr. Anderson, but I could never,” Kara concedes, waving him off. Hank processes the ‘Mr. Anderson’ about a full minute late, his cheeks coloring a light red. “We make due with what we have— or, it’s enough, I’ll say. Things will be better when I get a job, of course, but we’re... livable.”

“That’s good to hear,” Hank says. “Um. You can just call me Hank, by the way.” Kara offers him another smile, and glances over at Connor in the kitchen.

“You know, he’s something,” she says, a lot quieter, though Hank’s positive Connor can probably still hear them. He smiles lightly, fondly.

“He is,” Hank says. “Not sure what happened. Few months back some shithead android dragged me out of a bar to investigate a homicide I didn’t want nothin’ to do with and now...” He takes a breath, processing. “We’re here.”

“He talks about you a lot,” she states, though it’s not cheeky or invasive, and Hank has to thank God himself that nothing’s been misinterpreted.

“I know,” he returns. “Though I guess as of recent he talks a lot about you, too. Or we could just leave it at ‘he talks a lot’, and that’s the end of the discussion.” Kara laughs again, and Connor wiggles his shoulders.

“I don’t talk a lot,” he says.

“You do,” Hank retorts. “ _And_ you eavesdrop. Jackass.” Connor hesitates, as if to reply, but he has nothing to say in his defense.

“Well,” Kara sighs. “Stay proud. Alice loves him, and that’s not an easy feat to achieve.” Hank smiles again, before he can help himself, his gaze falling to his lap. After a moment more, he nods.

“I will,” he says. “I am.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Connor announces, preparing to spoon spaghetti onto the three plates laid out on the kitchen table. Hank and Kara move at the same time, and Hank decides she definitely needs to stay in their lives, what with there being so few good people left on earth.

\---

Connor’s seated on the floor when he enters, messing with his old Gamecube from college, again. Hank’s honestly surprised it still works, some thirty odd years later, but he knew it to be a good console, and Connor was certainly fond.

“Hey,” Hank says, shutting the door. A minute or so later and he hasn’t been replied to, which is odd. “Connor?” He doesn’t so much as look up at Hank, until he finishes whatever level of _Super Monkey Ball 2_ he’s on.

“Oh, hello, Lieutenant!” he says, brightly. “I’m sorry. I was very focused.”

“I get that,” Hank states, sitting down in the kitchen. “What are you up to?”

“I am doing, what the internet calls ‘speedruns,’” Connor explains, almost giddy. “It is when you play—“

“I know what a speedrun is,” Hank mumbles, waving him off. He’s a little surprised by the revelation; Connor didn’t seem all too fond of video games to begin with. “You’re running Monkey Ball?”

“Yes,” Connor says. “There are no RNG aspects to it, unless you count bounce, which makes it ideal to speedrun.”

“Um. Okay,” Hank affirms, understanding but refusing to comprehend. “Having fun?”

“Absolutely. I have come close to beating the world record twice now, and continue to perfect my IL strategies,” Connor says, proudly.

“Gotcha,” Hank says, nodding. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant.” Connor turns back to his game, peppy, and Hank looks on, dumbfounded. It made sense and yet was still so weird. He gets up, grabs a beer from the fridge, and debates retiring to his room for the night, but abandons it in favor of flopping down onto the couch to watch Connor destroy all the levels that gave him hell as a teenager. After all, the android was _into_ it. He supposed he could be, too.

\---

“Hank,” Connor says the moment he enters the house, shutting the door hastily behind him, all of which is a red flag to Hank, who’s used to the title of ‘Lieutenant’.

“Connor?” he says, looking up from the couch, worriedly. “What’s up? Did something happen at your hang out thing today?”

“I... maybe,” Connor says, nervous and unsure.

“Come’re, let’s decipher it,” Hank says, scooting over on the couch and patting the space next to him.

“The meeting was fine,” Connor says, sitting down next to him slowly. “I... think.”

“You think?” Hank asks, and Connor’s cheeks turn blue.

“I don’t remember a lot of what we talked about,” he admits.

“Uh,” Hank starts, not at all sure where this discussion was heading. “Yeah?”

“I’ve come into contact with something... new,” Connor says, slowly. “Well, what I think is an ‘emotion’ I haven’t experienced thus far.”

“Ohh, okay, I get it now,” Hank says. “What kinda emotion?”

“Um... I don’t know.” Connor pauses, taking a breath. “Its symptom—“ Hank grins a little to himself at the use of ‘symptoms’ for emotions, “—seems to be a need... to be closer to Markus.”

“To— _Ohh,_ ” Hank says again. “You like him.”

“Of course I do,” Connor says, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “We’re friends.”

“No, that’s—“ Hank cuts himself off, sighing loudly. “I mean, like, you _like_ him like him.”

“You... you just said the same thing twice, Lieutenant.”

“Okay,” Hank says, composing himself. “Why don’t you dissect it, then? You wanna be close to Markus. What does that mean to you?”

“It means that...” Connor begins, strained. “That he may be a potential criminal and that I should apprehend him on suspicion al—“

“Jesus, _no!_ ” Hank interrupts, taken aback. “I know you’re a police bot, but that is _not_ what that means.”

“Then—“

“Look, you probably aren’t used to it or you don’t know it yet, but, that sounds like a crush to me,” Hank explains, crossing his arms. “You like him, you wanna be close to him.”

“He’s pretty,” Connor says, distantly.

“Case in point.”

“Wait, but, what does that mean, ‘crush’?” Connor asks, frantically.

“You know what infatuation is, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what it is,” Hank says, nodding.

“Oh my god,” Connor says, and Hank laughs.

“You’re acting like you’ve just been told the worst news of your life,” Hank chuckles. “Lighten up. Love can be pretty cool.”

“But I thought...” Connor trails off, looking forlorn, and Hank’s demeanor hardens slightly.

“Thought what?”

“I thought that wasn’t... correct,” Connor says, quietly.

“What?”

“Androids are, of course, sexless, but seeing as gender is a social construct and that he and I are—“

“Oh, oh my god,” Hank says, almost jumping out of his seat in anguish. “You’re saying— being gay.”

“I... suppose that’s the term for it,” Connor affirms, his cheeks growing bluer.

“No, no, that’s— well,” Hank continues, struggling to explicate the ‘facts’, per say. “Being gay isn’t bad, or, ‘incorrect’. It isn’t. But for a long time everyone thought it was... I don’t really wanna get into the history of it right now. Your, um, crush, isn’t a bad thing at all. Okay?”

“Uh,” Connor begins, unsure. “Okay.”

“Look,” Hank says, composing himself, and then speaking softer, “I’m gay. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me.” Connor stares at him for a long moment, his eyes wide with discovery. “Don’t worry about it,” he continues, trying to take the subject back to the matter at hand. “Just don’t... arrest him. That’s not a way to deal with having a crush on somebody.”

“I won’t,” Connor says, still moon-eyed.

“Don’t do anything stupid, either,” he continues, playfully accusatory.

“I’ll try not to,” Connor concedes. “I don’t know what ‘stupid’ might refer to, in this scenario.”

“Oh, buddy,” Hank says, clapping him on the shoulder. “ _Lots_ of things.”

\---

Connor’s in his standby mode when Hank comes home, a lifeless rag doll and something he’d refused to have gotten used to since his adoption. He lets him alone for a little bit longer while he puts his things away and climbs into his pajamas, finally, wondering what he’d do for dinner. He approaches the couch and the ‘sleeping’ android after another five minutes, and leans down to gently shake Connor’s exposed leg. However, his synthetic skin seems to burn Hank on contact, and he jumps back with a little yelp, shocked.

“Connor,” he barks, unsure of what to do. “Connor!” he tries again, when the android doesn’t stir, and lifts a foot to jab him in the side. Connor jumps to life, animating instantly, but Hank notes he looks a little... off.

“Lieutenant?” he asks, lightly, sitting up slower than usual. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter with _me?_ ” Hank retorts, flabbergasted. “What’s the matter with _you!_ Your leg nearly fried my hand off!”

“Ah,” Connor says, and then closes his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. “So standby maintenance didn’t fix the issue,” he adds, tiredly.

“What issue?”

“In the middle of the day, today, I noticed an error message crop up in the periphery of my vision,” he explains, keeping his eyes closed. “Further investigation led me to believe my thermoregulator was malfunctioning, as well as... other things, but the diagnostics I ran turned up nothing. Despite that, I’ve been feeling cold all day, which is unusual. My system also seems to think I’m low on Thirium again, which can’t be possible, so my energy levels are fluctuating wildly. I believe I may have contracted some sort of scrambling virus,” he finishes, “though I’m not sure how.”

“Hmm,” Hank says, dropping onto the space of the couch where Connor’s legs once rested (that was still _very_ warm). He gives him the once over, noting the unusually pale blue tint to his face, the tired eyes and the shaky demeanor. He presses the back of his hand to the android’s forehead, just to double check, and the contact nearly burns him, just as before. “Oh my god. You’re sick,” he accuses.

“What? That’s nonsensical,” Connor retorts, opening his eyes again. “Androids can’t get sick.”

“You know what sickness is, pal? A virus. We call ‘em viruses, too. If you’ve got a virus, and _this_ is happening, you’re sick,” Hank states, crossing his arms. Connor looks at him for a long moment in disbelief, his eyes cloudy.

“But... that’s... it’s impossible,” Connor tries again.

“Clearly it’s not,” Hank retains.

“But...” Connor trails off, perturbed. “I should see if another maintenance check can fix the issue.”

“You probably have to get rid of it— the bug, somehow, but I’m not a mechanic,” Hank says, half-joking. Connor stands, and immediately wobbles in place, and Hank moves to catch his hips with his fingertips. “Please be careful,” he adds.

“I’m not sick,” Connor returns, adamantly. “And I’m fine. My chassis needs to cool down even though I haven’t been internally warned of the possibility of overheating.” Hank rolls his eyes as Connor pulls out of his grip and heads, slowly and wobbly, for the bathroom.

“If you need to puke, aim for the toilet,” Hank adds, snarky. Connor doesn’t reply, and Hank turns on the TV in his absence. The shower turns on, and Hank settles in for around 20 minutes, expecting a solution or a dejected declaration of acceptance at some point within that time. Instead, the shower continues running for another half an hour, and in an effort to conceal his concern, Hank attempts to tell himself he was just mad about how high his water bill was going to be this month.

“Hey, Con?” he calls, tenderly opening the bathroom door. “You alright in here?”

The sight that greets him is not exactly something he wants to see. Connor is standing, fully clothed, in the shower, steam rising off of him as the cold water droplets make contact with his overheated skin. His soaked t-shirt is raised, revealing the absence of his abdominal plate, and a hand buried in the deep blue circuits exposed to the slurry of conflicting conditions surrounding. Connor looks entirely forlorn, and tired, and if Hank isn’t mistaken, his dark eyes are clouded over with tears.

“Hank, I need help,” he croaks out, in a very small voice. Hank swears under his breath and approaches cautiously, moving first to turn off the water.

“That’s not what I meant when I— Jesus, please put your stomach back together,” Hank laments, grabbing an old towel from under the sink. Connor plugs whatever wire he had in his hands back into where it was and then removes his balled fists, stained blue, from his abdomen, the piece shifted back into place and covered with synthetic skin after a moment more.

“I tried t— I was trying... I couldn’t...” Connor tries to explain, his words shaking with the rest of him.

“Hey, chill out,” Hank says, handing him the towel. “Dry off and then we can take a look at like, the internet or something.”

“Warning,” comes a stiff, automated maintenance response from Connor, “Thirium levels critical.” He teeters in place for a moment, and Hank catches him, noting the blue stain at the bottom of his shirt.

“Jesus, Connor, you can’t tear yourself apart... _literally,_ ” he adds, holding the android in place with his fingertips, who is, despite his attempts at drying himself off, still on the edge of crying.

“I couldn’t find the bug,” he admits, letting the towel rest on his head for a moment. “This doesn’t f-feel good at all.”

“I know it probably—“

“Warning,” starts the automated maintenance response once more. “Thirium levels critical. Entering emergency energy save mode.” Hank isn’t sure what that means for two seconds until the hot, wet android crashes against him like a corpse, and he would’ve slipped to the ground if it weren’t for his arms already being extended.

“Oh, fuck,” Hank exclaims, on instinct, barely holding him in place. Connor is, he guesses, fully passed out, his once red LED clicking away in a dull yellow. Hank heaves him up, and grimaces at the heat being emitted from his body, letting him drop back down onto the edge of the bathtub gently. He gathers the towel in his arms to block contact, and then gingerly hoists him up, bridal style, and out of the bathroom at a slow pace.

“Fuckin’... plastic... still heavy as shit,” he grunts to himself before dropping Connor unceremoniously onto the couch, and Sumo whines, walking over and nosing at his still damp shirt. “Don’t worry about him, boy,” Hank calls, waving him over as he takes a seat in the adjacent armchair. Sumo ambles over and rests at his feet as Hank stares at the ‘asleep’ android on his couch, listless.

“Dumbass,” he sighs aloud, before settling into the chair fully for the night; they could figure out the issue in the morning.

\---

“Show me,” Hank says, expression hard. Connor proceeds to remove the skin around his knee, pop the cap off and dislodge his calf and foot without any issue. The other leg comes off above the knee, a clean connect about halfway through the thigh. It’s mesmerizing and not at all as gory as Hank expects it to be, but he suddenly understands a great deal more about androids.

“Most limbs have ports,” Connor explains. “Even my fingers have ports. Connecting them incorrectly makes the synthetic nerves incapable of hooking up to my brain— obviously.”

“And none of this hurts?” Hank asks.

“Why would it?” Connor returns, but it isn’t snarky. “I’ve adapted basic pain receptors, mostly in my face and abdomen, since my model’s release, and especially since deviancy, but connecting a bundle of wires and plastic to other wires and plastic doesn’t cause any sort of discomfort. Removing the pieces doesn’t either. It feels odd, sometimes, snapping things back into place, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Huh,” Hank says, sitting back on his heels. “Wish I could do that. Getting a day off might be easier.”

“There’s no real reason to do it,” Connor states, matter-of-factly. “Except for scheduled annual maintenance, but that isn’t for at least another month or two.”

“Then why do you?” Hank says, meeting eyes with him. “Remove stuff, I mean. I’ve seen you do it before. If it doesn’t serve a purpose outside polishing, why bother?” Connor stares at him for a long time, looking confused.

“I don’t— when do I remove my biocomponents?” he asks, honestly. Hank balks, refusing to answer for a moment.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“I see you do it all the time, Connor,” he continues, still confused. “Like you’ll be sitting there and you’ll just pop your hand off, or play with dislocating your calf all the time.”

“Hmm,” is all Connor says.

“Do you not realize you do it?”

“I suppose not.” Connor looks down at his detached leg for a moment, and Hank follows his gaze. He supposes it’s ultimately very human-centric to believe it’s weird to stim by removing limbs. But he wasn’t about to question it out loud. He stands, slowly, stretching, and gestures to Connor.

“Hey, put your legs back together. Let’s start walkin’ again.”

\---

Connor seems to stay out of the house later and later some days. Which Hank can’t necessarily be upset about, but he doesn’t enjoy going to bed before Connor is home and accounted for. He feels like he knows so little about the details surrounding Connor and his friends, which is probably for the better; but it refuses to curb the paranoia that gnaws at his gut every time the clock passes 11 PM and Connor isn’t tucked safely on the couch, yammering off about whatever it was they’d done that night.

He doesn’t want to say anything, from a logical standpoint; Connor is an adult, and more than capable of looking out for himself and deciding what time he’s comfortable coming home at. In a different vein— the irrational, selfish portion of Hank’s conscience— he wants to tell him to be home earlier, or to, at the very least, _ask._ Adopting what you assume to be a late-twenty-year-old into your family skips the whole rebellious teenage step and treks right into ‘wave hello to college’ territory, and if Hank is honest with himself, he _doesn’t_ want to see less of his son, even if he wasn’t going off to a university.

Instead of working it out, he grins and bears it; falls asleep right when he gets home, when he’s able to (on the couch, so Connor has to deal with him somehow) and gets however many hours in the actual night that he does. The mid-morning distractions become more frequent and Hank allows his job performance to slip down a bit more. Connor notices, because of course he does.

“Your sleeping schedule has become erratic lately, Lieutenant,” he says over coffee, something like concern clouding his tone. “Is there anything I can do?” Hank thinks about responding for a long time. Thinks about telling him that spending less and less time together was slowly driving him nuts. Heavily weighs the pros and cons of controlling Connor’s time out with his friends. His friends, Hank has to remind himself.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, and takes another drink of his coffee.

\---

“Connor,” Hank starts one evening. He shouldn’t call it an evening. He’s drinking at 2 AM.

“Lieutenant?” Connor responds, no doubt catching onto his not-so-subtle breach in tone.

“Don’t you ever worry?” There’s a pause. Connor’s gaze turns to nothing as he considers the question.

“Yes. A lot. About—“

“No, okay, let me...” Hank sighs to himself. promising he won’t buckle tonight. “Let me rephrase. Do you ever worry... specifically, about Cyberlife?” Another pause. He seems perplexed by the question.

“Cyberlife is gone,” he states. “What remains of their legal and fire power is limited by funds, and even then, it’s less than adequate to round up a prototype of my stature.” Hank looks at him for a long time. “Why?” he asks, curious. “Do you?”

“All the time.” Silence hangs for a moment. Connor’s eyes remain in place, thoughtful, scanning Hank’s body language. Part of him hates it. He hates having tells and body functions to analyze. He hates it whenever Connor states how high his stress levels are, because he feels like all it does is make them go higher.

“I can assure you, there’s nothing to worry about, Lieutenant.”

“Aren’t you ever scared there’s more Connors running around? Like, freaky ones who don’t know anything about me? About us?” Connor cocks his head at this.

“And what if there are?” No answer. “It’s been months since I’ve cut all ties, and months since they threatened to disassemble me after their fall in the first place. If they were going to send someone, they would have. The rest of the RK800 series likely were deactivated.” Hank swallows. The one and the only. “It’s out of our hands.”

“You know that’s not what I fuckin’ wanna hear,” he snaps, before he can help himself. “I don’t want an ‘it’s out of our hands’. I want a definitive assurance that you’re safe, and safe for good.” Connor thinks about the statement for a long moment. Hank can’t look at him right now; he’s in a bad place and he can’t tussle with the memories he’ll see if he does.

“I’m safe,” Connor says at length. “We’re safe.” Hank doesn’t believe it at first. Connor isn’t very good at lying, and the shake in his voice tells Hank he’s opened up a different Pandora’s Box. But after a moment, stiff arms move to wrap around him, pull him closer to the android.

Connor’s never initiated a hug before. Hank feels safe.

\---

“Okay, you can’t walk with it, that’s against the rules,” Hank says, stopping him.

“What?”

“It’s called ‘traveling’. It’s illegal. You gotta dribble.” He mimics the motion with his hands again and Connor responds accordingly, picking back up on the action slowly.

“It’s... uncomfortable,” Connor says, and Hank nods.

“Always is at first. But you’re good at it,” he encourages. “Go up and down the court doin’ that so we can move on to the bigger stuff.”

Connor takes to his directions, moving slowly at first and gradually increasing his speed as he laps the small, concrete court. It’s a little thing in the middle of a park Hank had come to for years. Not that he was in shape anymore, but it was still a nice place to be, and he was glad to be there again.

“Yeah, like that,” Hank says, and Connor looks up in place, eyes wide.

“Really?” he asks, and Hank smiles.

“ _Yes,_ ” he returns. “But now we gotta move onto the _hard stuff_.”

\---

Hank’s not at all sure how he expected Markus to be. To discredit Connor, weird, maybe quiet, maybe pleasant. He’d already lucked out with Kara; how could it happen again? But Markus isn’t anything at all like that and Hank understands fully why Connor is so enamored with him.

“You must be Mr. Anderson,” Markus says, as they sit down at a table, and he smiles, holding out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” says Hank, shaking his hand. “You can call me Hank.”

Connor had coaxed him into coffee some day earlier in the week; things were dragging at the station and it gave Hank another reason to get out of the house. Connor had only managed to inform him Markus might be there an hour before they left, though by now Hank was glad he’d invited him, despite how nervous Connor looked. The good nervous, he had to remind himself, and smiled.

“I, um, hear your... father?” Hank tries, very cautiously, but Markus nods, so he continues. “Is Carl Manfred. How is that?”

“Stressful,” begins Markus. Connor’s eyes are trained on him exclusively as he speaks, wide with curiosity. “Not stressful in the kind of way that I make it sound like. Everyone wants a piece of our time and some days he can’t even get out of bed. Too many people to please.” Hank nods, thoughtfully.

“Well, as annoying as it is I’m sure it isn’t ill-intentioned,” he states.

“Of course not,” Markus returns. “They love his work, and for good reason, but things don’t operate the same way they did thirty years ago.”

“You’re telling me,” Hank says.

“In any case, he’s taught me a lot about art,” Markus continues, brighter. “I’m hopefully going to succeed him if and when he eventually passes. Mostly because he wants me to.”

“Don’t you want to?” Hank asks.

“Well, yes,” Markus starts, his tone thickening. “I suppose I’m just not a whole fan of ‘succeeding him.’ I’d rather him stay alive and be painting by my side.” Connor nods, dumbfounded, and Hank nudges him, but he stays silent. “Anyway, that’s a dark path we seem to be plunging toward. Connor’s told us a lot about you, and I guess now is your time to defend that information.” They share a brief laugh, and Hank once again finds himself struck with how well-spoken and charming the beautiful android in front of him is.

“It’s probably true, whatever he’s told you,” Hank says. “And if it ain’t, well, he isn’t very good at lyin’.” It’s evident Connor means to defend himself, but his eyebrows furrow and he says nothing, instead. “I mean, there ain’t really much to tell, is the long and short of it. We live a simple life. Mine used to be not so simple. Things got better.”

“Things _are_ better,” Connor finally puts in, and Hank nods slowly, catching Markus’ sharp eyes studying him.

“He told me you act,” Hank continues, quirking a smile. “That true?” Markus looks down at his lap and blushes, unable to stop the simper from forming on his lips.

“I dabble,” he offers. “It’s nothing special. The local theater does a lot of projects we happen to help out with, as a part of the church, and my friends talked me into it. It’s fun, at least.”

“Improv?” Hank pushes, and Markus laughs this time, fully. Connor looks like he’s trying to sink in on himself, his head ducked and his coin flying rapidly between his fingers.

“Yes, we run the local improv group, too,” Markus affirms, “and before you ask, _yes,_ it’s bad. But, you should come see us perform sometime. It’s a good way to pay the bills at the theater for future productions,” he adds, and Hank cocks an eyebrow at the advertising attempt. He spares a glance over at Connor, and his facial expression returns to a somewhat concerned neutral.

“Maybe we will,” he says, and then forces himself to add, “Hell, I love improv.” Connor looks up at this.

“Oh, that’s great!” Markus replies, beaming, and Hank swallows. “I certainly hope you’ll enjoy it, then.”

“I’m positive we will,” he barks again, lying through his teeth. Hank did not, in fact, love improv. But he could tell engaging with something like this would certainly improve Connor’s chances with him. Above all, he wanted the android to be happy, seeing as how hard it is to come by good love.

It takes a full three minutes after Markus has left the coffee shop for Connor to calm down, and he turns to Hank in stiff confusion.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Hank asks, bewildered at the android’s stricken tone.

“Lie. Didn’t you tell me you hate ‘improv’?” Connor accuses. Hank smiles, unsure if he’s allowed to disclose that information.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hank waves him off, and before Connor has time to retort, he continues, saying “Y’know, he’s nice.” Connor shuts up somewhat instantly, his eyes glancing elsewhere.

“Yeah,” he agrees, quietly, and Hank doesn’t push it when he doesn’t say anything else.

“I was serious about goin’ to a show, though,” he presses, “assuming you’re interested.”

“I am interested,” Connor responds instantly, his back straightening quick as a whip. Hank chuckles.

“Cool. Now are you buyin’ me fancy expensive coffee, or not?”

\---

Hank should’ve foreseen that he wasn’t ready for this. That, somehow, he’d never be ready for this again. It felt different, now, somehow. More real than it ever had been before, and the threat lingered closer, toying with his heart rate constantly. Connor, of course, was ready. He was made to follow orders, and made for action, and not even developing emotions could squander that, ultimately.

It was the first case since Connor’s return to the police service, and Hank felt honestly that his heart would jump out of his chest.

Not that any real action had befallen them; they were on homicide together, again. This case was at least a week old already, and all they were really there to do was tie up loose ends or dig deeper, in Connor’s case. It was surprising to Hank, overall, not only that they’d let Connor back in after a couple of months of resuscitation in the form of adaptation, but also that he was now, formally, _Detective_ Connor (Hank had no honest way of bringing up a name change, if Connor even wanted to be an Anderson, anyway). He hadn’t expressed anything but pride outwardly, but inside, Hank was wrestling with what a mine field their department could be. He wasn’t ready.

They were still just getting the briefing right now, Hank steeling himself past the anxious nausea trying to force its way up his system. Four victims, no firearm involvement. Three downstairs and one upstairs. No sign of the perpetrator; possible android involvement, but their version of the forensics team was just getting to work, snooping about the overturned furniture and dried blood on the carpet. Hank felt himself relax, a little bit, when he saw how truly in his element Connor looked. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that weird suit.

“Lieutenant?” the android says, snapping him from his train of thought. “Your face is paler than usual, and I detect high levels of stress, including increased heart rate and raised blood pressure. Is something the matter?”

“I’m fine, Connor,” he says, and then corrects himself, “— _Detective._ ” Connor offers him a little smile, but the way his LED lingers on yellow for a moment tells Hank he doesn’t believe him, which is fair.

The last case they’d worked together before Connor’s “termination” played through his mind, repeatedly. Was it his fault? Probably not. He could’ve moved faster. He could’ve told Connor to wait. He could’ve barred investigation in that empty house without a team. But he didn’t. He doesn’t like to remember the blue blood staining his hands and clothes, or the drab walls of the hospital. Seeing Connor’s eyes bright with their familiar curiosity, so at home, makes it easier to forget.

\---

“I merely wish to... research,” Connor says, seemingly unsure.

“Research,” Hank repeats, incredulous.

“The television programs I’ve spent my time with in the early hours that you aren’t awake are of much interest to me,” Connor continues, now sheepish. “The creatures who live underwater are fascinating. I would like to see them. Up close, I mean.”

Hank stares at him for a long time, debating whether or not to say they couldn’t do it for money reasons, or Hank didn’t really want to go and he could drive himself or his friends if he really needed to, but both of those things would be lies. They were off on a Tuesday, and what a peculiar place to be.

“Fine,” Hank finally says. “You’re lucky the stars aligned for this exact date and time.”

“I predicted— never mind.” Hank snorts at his smartassery, how prideful he is in his ability to outshow Hank. He’s smiling, nonetheless, and so is Hank, and thirty minutes later they stand in the lobby of an aquarium, much larger than Hank remembered, in line to pay.

“I’ve made a list of all the species I require photographs of,” Connor says, almost singingly, and Hank smiles. “ _Aptenodytes forsteri, Delphinapterus leucas, Manta birostris_ — that one is definitive—“

“Hey, hey, whoa, calm it with the science talk, nark,” Hank chides, calmly. Connor had reduced himself to rambling off scientific names Hank had never heard of, and despite his enthusiasm, it was a little overwhelming.

“I would also like to see the _otters,_ ” Connor says, slower now, and Hank throws his hands up.

“Well, we _have_ to see the otters.” They’re walking in by the time the conversation continues, and Hank tries again even though Connor’s eyes are clearly focused elsewhere. “I gotta show you the shark tank, too.”

“Shark tank,” Connor repeats.

“Oh, it’s cool,” Hank explains. “It’s like, this tunnel in a huge tank, and the walls of the tunnel are all glass so you can see the sharks swimming all around you—“

“Oh, I like that,” Connor interrupts, and Hank isn’t sure if he’s talking about the sharks or the tank they’re approaching. It’s large, scaling half of a wall in the dark, neon-lit hallway they’d been walking down. Connor is examining the fish slowly, his eyes darting around the tank as Hank sits back and admires the scene inside. Slowly, Connor raises the camera strapped around his neck, and snaps a picture.

They walk around and stop at what feels like every exhibit, the android a dog drawn to the obscurities of sea creatures. He seems especially entranced by an anglerfish resting on the bottom of his pitch dark tank, and balks when they pass by an open display of sea turtles. Hank’s never seen him so animated, so _alive_ with how much passion he holds for the quiet lives of lesser life forms.

“Do you think they miss it?” Connor asks, to nobody in particular, while they’re stooped over to pet the backs of gliding sting rays. Hank had always liked the touching pools; simple creatures like starfish and clams— one, of which, he would surely be, if he were a mollusk— appealed to him most, and the other vertebrates in the water were calming.

“Miss what?” Hank asks, looking up only to see the brief light of joy on Connor’s expression after another string ray dips under his fingers.

“The ocean,” Connor says. “The real ocean.” Hank thinks for a moment.

“Do you ever miss it?” There’s a pause.

“What do you mean?” Connor asks, eyes turned onto his partner. Hank stares at him for a second, thoughtful.

“Your ocean. Familiarity. The way things were before they were... this.” Connor seems to think about the question for a very long moment, clearly unsure of how to answer. Hank doesn’t drag it out of him; the silence speaks volumes. With a singular, dry hand, Connor brings the camera up again, and snaps a picture of the scene.

\---

“Did you invite anyone over?” Hank asks as he approaches the door, the singular, curt knock to its surface unfamiliar. Connor frowns, looking up from his game.

“I don’t recall doing so,” he states. Hank’s hand hesitates over the knob. He waits a moment; perhaps if he doesn’t open it, whoever would just go away. But another thirty seconds, and the singular, hard knock comes again. Hank gives in, and peeks the door open.

A hand jams itself through the opening and shoves the door wide, and there’s a brief moment of unrest as the house’s occupants grasp just who was knocking. Hank’s intimately aware of a presence a little over his height, with steel grey eyes and an icy stare. He doesn’t believe it at the face alone, as it’s just what he’d feared this whole time; a replica. Another. And when he glances down at the too stiff, too pristine jacket, the words ‘MODEL RK900’ flashing on the breast are enough to freeze him in place. He barely has time to grasp that Connor looks even more terrified than he does, his LED a deep red and clicking rapidly.

“Can— Can I help you?” Hank barks out, trying in vain to push against the android, who seems much too intent on getting into the house. The RK900 says nothing, not even regarding him; Hank’s struggles are unregistered, and he’s pushed aside.

The android reaches the couch just as Connor manages to tear himself off of it, rendered silent, panic all over his features as he retreats backwards into the kitchen.

“Connor!” Hank calls at him, just as the newer model throws an arm up to stop Hank in place, his eyes flashing an evident warning for no interference. Connor doesn’t answer anyway, very slowly gaining his bearings. His LED is yellow now, and bright. Hank knows he’s thinking, strategizing, and something in him is briefly relieved. He still feels like he might puke.

The RK900 advances once more, and lowers his arm in tandem. Hank attempts to move past him again, but he’s caught in sequence, this time, the android turning on him.

“Do not compromise the situation,” he says, in a cold, even voice, so like and yet unlike Connor’s, gripping a struggling Hank by the shoulders.

“Get _off_ me, you fuckin’— Don’t touch him!” he forces out. The RK900 stares him down briefly, before grabbing him by the throat, and Hank understands what he’s here for, now, as his airways are cut off.

“Stop that!” Connor shouts, suddenly, his ground stood. The RK900 looks back at him, his gaze void of anything but sight, and after a moment more, his tight grip on Hank’s throat loosens somewhat.

“He was not going to die,” RK900 returns as he drops Hank against the couch, and Hank coughs, praying absently that this was something Connor could handle on his own.

“You have no business with him,” Connor reminds him, stanced, determination and anger molded into his expression. The RK900 says nothing, and silence hangs for a moment. “ _Act_ ,” demands Connor, and before anybody even has time to shout, the newer model has moved toward him in a flash.

Hank wheezes as Connor narrowly ducks out of the contact, he and his doppelgänger spinning around to face one another again. It’s evident the RK900 has one thing on his mind, and Connor seems to sense this, alert, watching the other’s eyes.

He lunges at Connor again and they hit the floor with a hard thunk. Sumo begins to howl at the door from out back, but Hank doesn’t dare move, for everyone’s sake.

The androids struggle in a heap on the ground, the RK900 tearing relentlessly at the hoodie Connor is wearing to get at his Thirium pump while his other arm braces the older model down, forcing him to squirm and grunt with the effort to draw him off. In vain, his legs kick underneath him until he catches the RK900 off balance, and all at once the positions are switched. Hank watches in awe as Connor pins the other android, raw energy overcoming his expression. The RK900 struggles underneath him briefly before bucking, his strength clearly superior, but it’s too late; Connor has his hands, synthetic skin absent, plastered against the sides of his face.

All at once, the conflict dwindles, until Connor is straddling what looks to be a lifeless android, his hands still cradling the other’s face, and slowly moving to pin down his arms. Hank staggers to his feet officially, still trying to ignore Sumo’s cries, peering over the couch at the scene.

“What did you do?” he asks suddenly, dumbfounded.

“I... I told him,” Connor says, not looking up, and Hank doesn’t feel the need to ask what that means. Connor’s watching the red LED of his counterpart click slowly, his face and body unmoving for a good portion of a minute. Slowly, it clicks yellow, and then blue, and he animates, eyes snapping to look at Connor. Silence hangs in the room, though Hank has a feeling they’re conversing on the weird, telepathic frequency androids have access to. Connor’s expression hasn’t moved, but it softens suddenly, and he draws away from the other android, who all at once looks very lost on Hank’s kitchen floor.

“That scared the shit out of me,” Hank finally says, breaking the silence of the house.

“He didn’t know,” Connor says, slowly. “About Cyberlife. He didn’t know.”

“Hmm,” Hank says.

“I don’t think— He’s still struggling with directive,” he states, looking down at the larger android. “His last assignment was supposedly to dispose of the last of my kind, and then self-destruct or return to Cyberlife accordingly.” Hank shivers. “I’m not sure when that was written into his programming. I don’t know when he was activated.”

“Is he... broken?” Hank asks, quietly, and Connor tilts his head.

“All his systems are in working order,” he remarks. “I couldn’t find any damages, internally or—“

“No, no, I mean...” Hank waves him off, and then looks to the RK900. “He’s just layin’ there.” They both stare helplessly at the newer RK, who refuses to acknowledge both pairs of eyes. Hank moves slowly over to the back door, letting Sumo in under his control.

“It’s a lot to process,” Connor finally says, very quiet, his LED yellow. “I can’t blame him.”

“Did he deviate?” Hank asks.

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “I’m not sure what, exactly, my interface activated within him. I don’t...” Connor trails off.

“Don’t?”

“My... ability to interface, is limited,” Connor admits, sullenly. “I was meant to interact with terminals, or doors. I can receive information, but... My being a prototype makes me... incompatible, with a large majority of the population.” These words sink into Hank very slowly, and he doesn’t want to say anything that might send Connor spiraling, and yet he’s so curious.

“It looked like you interfaced with him,” Hank observes, after a moment. Connor doesn’t look up.

“I did,” he says. “There’s just no way of knowing whether or not I did it right. Whether or not there’s any way for me to do it right.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Nines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! i was busy today.  
> this ones a little shorter i think, and theres Very short talk of suicide near the end.  
> enjoy as usual, and thank you for all of the comments! im sorry i havent found the energy to reply to all of them but i promise i appreciate them with all my heart

RK900 is peculiar. He’s everything and nothing like Connor at once. After a couple of days it’s decided, regardless of whatever Connor’s attempt to interface with him did, he’s harmless for now. Connor remains on edge, concerned for his lack of ability, but RK900 makes no move towards him again. He’s unnervingly silent, and looks much too big next to Connor, who’s already an above average size. Hank, honestly, doesn’t know what to do with another, weirder android in his house, but Connor seems content in looking over him, almost studying him despite his hesitance. They speak on their frequency anyway, Hank is sure, so he doesn’t have to do much.

“How about... ‘Nine’? ‘Nines’?” Connor suggests. The RK900 nods, after a moment, and Hank looks up from his coffee.

“What are you two up to?” he asks.

“RK900 needed a name,” Connor remarks.

“They didn’t give him a name?” Hank follows, bewildered.

“He wasn’t made for human integration, or ever registered, for that matter,” Connor states, his eyes examining his superior counterpart through and through. “He had no AI of his own; only programmed directives. We’re nothing alike.”

“He’s not a prototype?” Hank presses.

“No,” Connor says. “Just a more advanced version of... well, me. And complete. Field tested, or as field tested as you can be with your corporation in flames, and made to finish what I could not.” Hank hums to himself, wary.

“And we’re sure he can be trusted?”

“No,” Connor says again. “But his attempts to communicate with me seem fruitful. I am positive if he doesn’t let go of directives and system orders by today, he will soon.” He pauses. “He’s lost.”

“Why doesn’t he talk?” Hank asks, and Connor looks from Hank to Nines, their eyes meeting. There’s a pause.

“He doesn’t want to,” Connor says.

“Fuckin’ weird,” Hank returns.

“It’s a formality,” Connor continues. “Lots of androids remain silent by choice.”

“But why?”

“I have to assume that if integrating with humans is not a necessary skill to possess, it isn’t one they wish to possess at all.” Hank thinks on this for a long minute, finishing his mug of coffee and not finding it in himself to go and get more.

“Nines,” Hank mumbles after a time, mostly to himself. Connor’s LED clicks yellow for a moment as he processes.

“Yes, Nines,” Connor says. “None of the other names I suggested clicked. He would’ve preferred to stay RK900.”

“No,” Hank puts in.

“Exactly,” Connor returns. “The nickname is satisfactory.”

“What do we do with ‘em now?” Hank mutters, absent-mindedly. “I can’t see leavin’ him here alone with Sumo, but we can’t take any more days off.”

“We could bring him with us,” Connor suggests, and Hank snorts.

“Yeah, I’m sure that won’t look suspicious or weird in any way.”

“He seems to be looking for purpose now, also,” Connor states, staring into the doppelgänger’s light eyes. “A similar state I was in once. He seems eager to... understand things about me. And he was made to police,” he observes, and Hank hmphs.

“I suppose,” he says. “But if Fowler gets on our asses, _you_ take the fall.”

“Got it,” Connor says. He stills suddenly, sitting back. “Markus?” he asks the room, and Hank stares at him in confusion for a short moment. “I’m sorry. We’ve been busy.”

“A call?” Hank asks. Nines offers his gaze to Hank before raising a single finger to his mouth, as if to silence him, and Hank stares at him deathly.

Connor’s on the ‘phone’ for another minute or so, ending off with a, “S-sure. Okay. Goodbye.”

“What was that?” Hank asks, and Connor doesn’t look at him; Hank is sure he’s burning blue in the face.

“He merely made to check up on us,” he says, quickly. “And inform us that the date of the upcoming ‘Improv Night’ would be in two weeks and two days.”

“Yeah?” Hank says, cocking an eyebrow. “He say anything else?”

“No,” Connor says. Silence hangs for a moment. Both other occupants stare at Connor, and Sumo huffs as he lies down at Hank’s feet. “Yes,” he finally admits. “He wanted to know when we could get together again.”

“Nice,” Hank says, amused at the android’s apparent crush.

“Lieutenant,” Connor starts again, standing. “Perhaps we should go to work.”

“Perhaps,” Hank parrots, good-naturedly, and then retires to his room to put on real clothes.

\---

“Hey Connor,” Hank says as he enters the house, shutting the door with one hand while the other holds a paper bag to his chest.

“What do you have in the bag?” Connor asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Do androids have birthdays?” Hank says, ignoring the android’s question. Connor thinks for a while, and Nines opens his eyes after a minute of stillness to examine Hank.

“We are not ‘born’, so there is no day to celebrate birth,” Connor states. “Though, following human custom, we do have assembly and activation dates.”

“Do you know yours?” Hank follows up, setting the bag down on the kitchen table and leaning down to pet Sumo.

“Of course,” Connor says, like it’s obvious. “My date of activation was August 15th, 2038, 8:04 PM.”

“Good to know,” Hank hums.

“What’s in the bag?” Connor presses again, now too preoccupied with that mystery to care about the other android picking the stray dog hair from his hoodie.

“A shitload of treats,” Hank says, brightly, and Sumo’s ears perk vibrantly at the word ‘treats’. “This old dog’s gonna be eight in a week or so.”

“Ah! This is why you asked me if I had a birthday,” Connor suggests.

“Yeah,” Hank says, almost sheepish. “They’re fun.”

“When is your birthday, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, and Hank quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You already know that, don’t you?” Connor purses his lips at this reply, turning gently to pause the movement of Nines’ hands.

“I do,” he says. “I wished to hear you say it.”

“Alright, smartass, September,” Hank responds, crossing his arms as he moves over to sit down on the couch with them. “What about him?” he adds, and Nines’ sharp eyes flick to look at him. Connor glances over his counterpart for a second, and their gazes return to one another, a brief period of silence and yellow LEDs.

“March 22nd, 2039, 9:01 AM,” Connor states, softly. Nines stares at him hard for a minute before he turns to Hank again, something like curiosity in his gaze.

“Sumo’s is April 7th,” Hank says, to break the odd silence.

“In one week and a day,” Connor chimes in, enthusiastically out of nowhere.

“Yeah, exactly.” Hank nods. “It’s cause for celebration.” Sumo rolls over at their feet, as if he knows the conversation has turned back to him.

“And for lots of pets,” Connor says, reaching down to scratch the dog’s belly, and Hank laughs.

“Yeah. That, too.” Connor goes still for a moment, his eyes flicking to Nines, who is staring at him in turn. Both LEDs go yellow for a moment before Connor looks back at Hank.

“Does he know?” Connor asks, and Hank tilts his head. “Nines is curious.”

“Know his birthday? Hmm,” Hank says, and the dog looks up at him, tongue out and tail wagging lazily. “He ought’a. I’ve been spoiling him for years now; he’s smart enough to catch onto the pattern.”

“Fascinating,” Connor says, though his lack of emphatic expression seems to suggest that the thought was not his own. “I am excited for the celebration, and especially for it being the first of many,” Connor adds, enthusiasm leaked back into his voice. Hank smiles.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

\---

“I’m going,” Connor says, tugging on his shoes by the door.

“Okay,” Hank says through the cereal in his mouth, not looking up.

“We are going to get coffee, and then there’s a chance we will go back to his house and h—“

“ _Okay,_ ” Hank says, firmer, and looks up to meet the confused expression on the android’s face. “How many times do I have to tell you you don’t have to tell me what you’re doing? You’re an adult and I trust you to make good decisions.” Connor stares at him for a moment as he stands. Hank takes another bite of cereal.

“Okay,” Connor says, a little dumbfounded, and opens the door. “I’m going.”

“Have fun,” Hank says, with a cheeky smile, and watches Connor disappear behind the closing door. He sits back on the couch, at peace with the silence and moving to grab the remote and change the channel, but to his surprise, it isn’t in its usual place on the coffee table. Hank sits up a little straighter, scouring for it, until he scares himself half to death when he notices Nines is sitting in the adjacent armchair, with the remote, eyes boring into Hank.

“Oh,” he says, nervously, and Nines doesn’t blink. “Not a fan of company?” Hank mumbles, trying to make conversation. It’s silent for a full minute. “Me either,” he says, even quieter. He felt he was in an awkward position; the newer android refused to speak to him in any instance, instead content with studying Hank thoroughly with his piercing gaze. Part of him was off-put by their lack of connection, but he supposed it was inevitable, with how the RK900 was made. Moreover, it was admittedly weird seeing the sharper image of the android inducted into his family in the past couple of months, fully silent and calculating across from him.

Nines tilts his head after a moment, and joins his hands at his solar plexus, rubbing them out together in an odd, curved motion before they come to rest, independently, face down in the air. Hank stares at him in neat confusion at the quick, fluid gesture, which he repeats with furrowed eyebrows when Hank doesn’t take to it.

“ _What?_ ” Hank finally forces out. “What are you—“

“‘Peace’,” says Nines, who repeats the action again, his voice very small for his stature, and crackly, a kind of feedback that reminds Hank of the times Connor had threatened to bleed out in his arms. After a moment more of contemplation, it clicks.

“Oh,” Hank returns, softly. “Sorry. I don’t know sign language.” Nines repeats the gesture.

“‘Peace’,” he says again, even smaller, and after a moment Hank raises his hands, as if to follow and mimic the action. Nines’ expression changes to his usual glint of curiosity, his eyebrows jumping up the slightest when Hank makes an attempt at his own sign of ‘peace’. He offers him a warmer gaze when Hank gestures again, a sheepish smile coloring his features.

“Peace,” he parrots, and Nines nods, looking around at the stillness of the abode. Hank gives a short sigh, nodding. “Yeah. I like it too.”

The next hour or so Hank’s time is lost to the quiet company of Nines, who insists on teaching him more signs to use, including tired, bored, and grumpy, all of which Hank is a fan of. The android even offers him a fluttering gesture that he clarifies means ‘blah-blah’, which manages a laugh out of Hank at the implication. It’s more fun than he remembers, learning. And it certainly made living with the more advanced android a little bit easier.

“Okay, wait, I remembered,” Hank says, stopping their attempts at ‘stupid’ to garner the android’s attention. “I do actually know somethin’ that you haven’t taught me. I’m pretty sure it means ‘love’.” Nines gives a cock of the head, and waits patiently as Hank positions his fingers accordingly on the one hand, holding the sign out proudly. Nines smiles at him after a moment, doing a sequence of motions quick enough that Hank is lost.

“What? Do that again,” he requests, and Nines repeats the action slowly, pointing first with his pinkie, then crossing his wrists, and pointing at Hank.

“‘I love you’,” he says, quietly, in clarification, and Hank can’t help from flushing in the slightest.

“Well... I got the gist of it, anyway,” he mutters. Nines looks at him for a moment and gestures from his forehead into the letter ‘Y’, which Hank remembers means ‘why’ a moment later. “Why? Why what?” Nines signs ‘why’ and ‘ILY’ in response, and Hank thinks about it for a long moment, silent.

“It was something my parents used to do,” he finally offers, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I mean, I didn’t know it was sign language ‘til way later, of course, but I got in the habit of it because of them. It was... a simple way to say ‘bye, love you’, and make it more meaningful, I guess.” Nines stares at him for a long moment, his tight gaze searching. Hank studies his hands poignantly, only drawn out of his own thoughts when Nines waves for his attention again. He brings the index and thumb of both hands together, and makes a circular motion. Hank watches him slowly, tuned into the honest expression on his face.

“What?” he finally asks, when Nines has done it again, and convinced Hank to do his own sloppy, contrived version of the fluid motion.

“‘Family’,” Nines says, quietly, and signs the word again. Hank’s eyes never leave the other’s digits as he does it, and then he copies the motion himself, in wonderment and at peace.

\---

“Tell me again why there’s _two of him_ , now?” It had been at least a week since Nines’ integration with the police service, and Gavin, apparently, still hadn’t adapted to his presence. Hank snorts.

“They just keep croppin’ up,” he says.

“He was made to replace me,” Connor explains at his desk, the newer android standing over his shoulder menacingly.

“So, then... why, are you both here?” Gavin asks, his eyes narrowed.

“Cyberlife’s influence has dwindled. I don’t know that he’s a deviant, but he hasn’t attempted to deactivate me since our initial encounter,” Connor states, matter-of-factly, and Hank shivers at how nonchalantly he discusses what tended towards a near death experience.

“He’s creepy,” Gavin says, after a time.

“Be nice,” Hank says, not looking up from his own terminal.

“Human integration was not a feature they kept in mind for his production,” Connor says, and then, “Detective Reed, we’ve no doubt informed you of all of this prior to this conversation. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine, asshat,” Reed says, finally tearing his eyes away from the two almost identical androids. “It’s just weird, is all. Guy just hovers behind you two all day and doesn’t say a word. Ain’t that a little off-putting?”

“He only had two days to adjust to brand new instructions, or the lack thereof,” Connor continues, now not even gracing Gavin with his gaze. “I’m sure you can’t relate, but having your entire thought process and predisposed way of life rewritten in the span of a couple of minutes can be overwhelming.” Gavin seems to think on these words for a minute, looking up to lock eyes with the newer model again.

“Okay, I get that, I guess,” he admits, quietly. “But why can’t he even _talk?_ ”

“He can,” Connor starts.

“He doesn’t want to,” Hank puts in, flatly, stopping the conversation in its tracks. The others glance up at his input, and after a moment or so more, Gavin makes the quiet decision to stalk back to his desk, Nines watching him curiously.

\---

“Connor,” Hank starts, trying to keep his voice from wavering while he pretends to read the magazine in front of him.

“Lieutenant,” Connor returns, not looking up from the odd game he and Nines have started to play in their down time, the coin zipping back and forth between both sets of hands almost too fast to watch. Hank swallows.

“Do you...” Hank trails off, stopping to think. He wasn’t sure if it was an appropriate question to ask. Despite everything, he (and Connor) still hadn’t dropped the _D word,_ and Hank was starting to wonder if he even should.

“Do I what?” Connor asks, tone flat.

“Do you... do you ever feel like you need a mom?” Hank asks, trying to make himself as small as possible. The gentle _tink_ of the coin stops abruptly, as the question settles in the air. Hank regrets it instantly when both androids’ LEDs flash yellow, and eventually, Connor turns to look at him, confusion evident in his expression.

“Not particularly,” he says. “Why?”

“I... I wasn’t sure how... _normal_ you wanted things to be around here,” Hank admits. Connor tilts his head.

“You mean, nuclear,” he corrects. “Abnormality in family doesn’t exist.”

“Hmm,” Hank says.

“I have had exactly two encounters with what we can safely call, ‘parental figures’,” Connor goes on to say. Hank and Nines’ eyes remain glued to him. “Amanda was likely the closest thing I ever had to a ‘mother’, and that experience was less than pleasant upon further analysis.”

“Okay,” Hank eggs him on.

“The second, by process of elimination, would... I suppose, be you, Lieutenant,” Connor continues, softly. “I’m not sure if it’s appropriate to interpret our relationship as familial, but that is how I register it, at the very least.” Hank stares at him for a long time.

“Of _course_ it’s appropriate to call it family,” Hank says, feeling more sheepish than he looks. “Is there anything else you would call it?”

“Friends,” Connor remarks, thoughtfully, and Hank hums.

“Parents can be friends with their kids,” he says.

“I suppose,” Connor says. 

“Just ‘cause I’m... I’m a ‘father figure’, or whatever, doesn’t mean I have to be your _dad_ ,” he continues. “You’re an adult. I can’t pass much more down to you.”

“Yes you can,” Connor says, and turns to look back at Nines again. Hank’s eyebrows furrow.

“But—“

“I have learned a lot of things under your wing, Lieutenant, that is nothing to be shy of,” Connor explicates, almost proudly. “I will continue to learn new information as well, as is standard. My programming denotes that I am capable of functioning, and that I can access millions of databases to give me whatever information I may be privy to. But my programming cannot tell me how to enjoy things, or how to make your coffee perfect, or how to love. You taught me how to be human, Lieutenant, and I would call that quite irreplaceable.”

Hank thinks on these words for a long time, poignant. He was right, of course, as he always was. Their relationship stood at a weird enough place that most terms, other than friends, or maybe just family, didn’t seem right. And Hank was just processing that that was perfectly alright, and that he very well wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything, either.

“Hmm,” is all he can bring himself to say.

“I hope, at the very least,” Connor continues, his coin continuing its journey between he and Nines’ hands after a moment more, “regardless of how you view me, that you understand I will never intend to replace that that is lost.” Hank sets his jaw.

“No. No, you’re not replacing anything,” he sighs. “I didn’t mean to get things so... moody.”

“It’s alright,” Connor says, nonchalant, and then continues, smugly and teasingly, “Will it mend things if I call you ‘dad’?” Hank chuckles, shaking his head quickly.

“ _No,_ don’t say that, it’s weird,” Hank puts in, and then quiets. “...Unless _you_ want to.”

“I’m fine,” Connor says, smiling. “It is weird.”

“Family’ll do,” Hank returns, quietly. “I like that word.”

“So do I,” Connor hums, and stares at Nines, whose eyes are focused rather intently on the older man. He’s signing again, slowly, and when Hank remembers its meaning— _family_ — he quirks a smile.

\---

He’s zoning out again in a way that makes Hank nervous. Not full shutdown, motionless for hours zoning out, but quick glimpses, minutes at a time, that always leave Connor looking _tired_ , which very well shouldn’t be possible. It’s distracting Hank as they drive to a case, his fingers flexing on the wheel.

“Hey, Connor, what’s up with you today?” he snaps, before he can stop himself, and Connor turns to look at him instantly.

“Up with me?”

“You’re actin’ weird again. Don’t think I don’t notice.” Connor’s gaze flicks off of him as instantly as it’s there, settling in his lap. 

“I have been trying to access my mind palace again,” he admits, quietly, and Hank spares a quick look of disbelief over at him.

“Why?” Hank asks.

“Before deviancy, it was very peaceful, and a nice place to take a stroll around while my systems booted up or recharged,” Connor explains, softly. “Despite its fate, I still associate that memory with comfort. I can access it still, but...”

“But?”

“It is entirely frozen over,” Connor says, gravely. Hank feels as if he should be struck, but he doesn’t understand what that means fully.

“Go on,” he coaxes.

“The many times Cyberlife attempted to overwrite my software instabilities, my mind palace freezing was a sign of a loss of control, as I would also start to freeze,” Connor goes on. “If it were to freeze over completely, I would have lost, and self-destructed, or done something much worse.”

“Yeesh,” Hank says.

“I assumed it would be inaccessible to me as the singular prominent link with Cyberlife it held, but I discovered some time ago during stasis that it still exists, through what I think you would call a ‘dream’.”

“Do androids dream of electric sheep?” Hank mumbles, mostly to himself.

“What?” Connor asks, looking over at him.

“Nothing,” Hank chides quickly, self-conscious. “Continue.”

“I’m... not denied access when I enter it, so to speak,” Connor says. “But entering does take more energy allocation than is normal, and the first couple of seconds spent there are accompanied by an unfamiliar, sharp, pain, that shocks me back out of it instantly.”

“That’s weird,” Hank remarks.

“It is,” Connor affirms. “I did not adapt pain sensors in any portion of my head, if I remember correctly, and the biocomponents do not report damage, but... it hurts, nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank puts in. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t believe so,” Connor states, and glances out the window, something unreadable in his expression. “I just miss it, is all.”

“Hmm,” Hank says, turning the car ‘round a corner.

\---

“You shouldn’t be on a personal call at work,” chides Hank, though it’s friendly.

“Quiet,” Connor orders, and Hank cocks an eyebrow. The android continues to chatter aloud— to Markus, he presumes, while Nines examines the various trinkets littering Hank’s desk over his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be over there?” Hank whispers, gesturing toward’s Gavin’s desk. The taller android follows his gaze, but turns back to look at him sternly, as if in disagreement.

In an attempt to allow his existence to prove more seamlessly integrated into Hank and Connor’s daily lives, and under the supervision of Fowler and (hesitant) acceptance by Gavin, Nines was Detective Reed’s acting partner. They proved an odd pair, and seemed dysfunctional at first glance, but Hank supposed honestly that they got the job done more often than not, which meant Nines was usually out of their hair during work. Hank supposed, then, they didn’t _always_ get along.

“Okay. Yes. Goodbye,” Connor finally says, and the two across from him stare haplessly. “What?” he says.

“So?” Hank asks, clearly baiting to be nosy. Connor flushes lightly, turning back to his terminal, and Hank smirks.

“We are going to hang out this weekend,” he states. “His Saturday night is the last free time he has before the theater program takes over in preparation for the improv show.”

“Interesting,” Hank says, smug.

“Lieutenant, don’t you have search warrants to be reviewing?” Connor snaps, and Hank laughs.

\---

2039, and Hank was right. He still hated theatrical improv, with a deadly passion. Connor is entirely tuned in, refusing to blink lest he miss a small portion of the show, or a single second spent not looking at Markus, at the very least, Hank thinks. He’s comforted somewhat by the placidity of Nines’ expression, though that’s always there; he sits rigidly and indifferent with a familiar curious glint to his light eyes. Nothing, Hank notes, like Connor’s attention.

Two hours pass in what seems like an eternity of young adults doing cheesy, uninteresting scenes without a single prop. To Hank’s surprise, the audience is still as full at the curtain call as it was when they began, and part of him is glad _somebody_ enjoys this shit. Connor wears a big smile as they applaud the makeshift cast out, and soon they’re exiting the theater.

“So that sucked.” Hank is the first to speak, hands in pockets as they stand outside waiting for the troupe to do greetings. Connor balks, Nines emotionless at his side.

“No it didn’t,” Connor retorts.

“They were terrible,” Hank continues. “I mean, passable acting wasted on what? _Improv?_ ”

“You’re being too harsh,” Connor scolds him. “I enjoyed the part where they... where...” He trails off, clearly at a loss.

“See? You just liked it ‘cause Markus was in it.”

“That isn’t true,” Connor returns, instantly, his cheeks turning blue. “I like all of the actors we witnessed today.”

“Uh huh,” Hank says. He thinks about continuing to tease Connor until Markus himself— followed by the three regulars Connor had described to him in the past— comes strutting up to them, a bright smile on his face.

“Connor, Lieutenant Anderson!” he exclaims.

“Hank,” Hank mumbles.

“So glad you two could make it.” Markus’ smile doesn’t move even as he turns his gaze to the taller android backing the two.

“This is Nines,” Connor says. “He is my successor in purpose, and, a friend, for now.” Markus and Nines exchange gazes, and after a moment more of silence, Markus looks back at Connor, almost in question. “Ah. He doesn’t talk much, no.”

“Nines, huh?” Markus says, turning back to look him up and down. “No worries. We’re glad you could make it anyway, and nice to meet you.”

“Lieutenant,” Connor begins. “You’ve met Markus.” Hank nods, rolling his eyes. “This is North, Simon, and Josh.” The three— vitalized, and studying him with interest— nod as their names are spoken.

“Hi,” Hank says, bashful.

“Connor, I was wondering when you were gonna introduce me to your old man,” the girl who he assumes to be North remarks, stalking a little closer.

“We’ll have everybody over as soon as the time is right,” Connor answers quietly, and Hank glances over at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Sure,” Hank says, after the enduring silence. The actors once again busy themselves with greetings not just meant for the Anderson family, and Hank turns back to his androids, feeling sheepish.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asks, in obvious concern.

“Nothin’,” Hank assures him. “I’m good.” He takes a moment, to set his jaw as they begin to leave the theater officially. “I’m glad you have friends,” he adds, honestly, and Connor gives him a small, tilted smile.

\---

“Hey Connor,” Hank starts one day, glancing over him lightly. The android turns to look at him from his place at the counter, running the coffee machine.

“Lieutenant?” he answers.

“How come all your friends, um...” Hank scratches his chin, in thought. “How come they all removed their LEDs?”

“They didn’t want them,” Connor says simply, turning back to his task.

“How come you haven’t taken yours out?” Connor’s demeanor doesn’t change, but his LED turns yellow.

“I don’t... want to,” he says. Hank stares, unmoving, at the back of his head for a while.

“Why not?” he asks.

“I don’t,” Connor says again, and then turns to look at him, the little disc still cycling yellow. “Don’t you like it?”

“What?”

“Don’t you appreciate its use?” Connor asks, honestly, something strained in his expression. “The ability to tell where my systems are at, or... or where I ‘am’, at a glance?”

“I mean, it’s not that simple,” Hank interjects. “Sure, that’s nice, but what I like doesn’t matter when it’s about you.”

“Well, I like it,” Connor concludes firmly, and turns back to the coffeemaker. Hank cocks an eyebrow and decides not to pry anymore about the android’s odd security blanket.

\---

“Lieutenant, I have an inquiry, and a thought,” Connor says one day, on the way to work. Nines is seated quietly in the backseat, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Hank spares Connor a curious glance, and then turns back to driving, shrugging at length.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Has your mental health improved somewhat in recent months?” Hank feels like he might crash the car at the suddenness of this question, his eyes flitting back over to the android. He thinks for a long while, truly unsure of how to answer.

“...Yes?” Hank responds, voice quiet. “I dunno, you’re the one with the fancy scanner things, you tell me.”

“It was not a quiz, Lieutenant,” Connor chides, and then adds, softer, “I merely wished to ask... how you are feeling.”

“Oh,” Hank returns, automatically, sheepish. “I... yeah, I guess. Things are better.”

“May I share with you something of a deeply personal nature, Lieutenant?”

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” Hank mumbles.

“As you know, I possess the ability to construct scenarios,” Connor begins, matter-of-factly. “Tangible things that have happened, such as when we are investigating a case, or things that will or may happen. I wouldn’t call it predictive; some outcomes are guaranteed, such as when I preconstruct an action pattern for myself—“

“Are you sure this is personal?” Hank puts in, listening to the android ramble in bewilderment.

“Yes. However, some outcomes are mere high percentage calculations based upon the probability percentages of other, related items.”

“Cut to the chase,” Hank pushes. Connor pauses.

“I first want to admit, near the beginning of our relationship, I preconstructed many different scenarios based upon where we stood, and where your mental health seemed to be.” Hank starts at this, willing Connor to continue. “Many probable outcomes startled me. Many times I was met with scenarios where you acted upon the often high probability of suicide ideation. I wished to express... I am glad my calculations were off, or that the less-in-favor outcome won out time and time again.”

A heavy silence hangs on the car for a long time as Connor’s words sink in. His eyes are trained out the window, just as Hank’s are focused deeply upon the road ahead. Something within him quivers a little bit; he understands the feeling fully. He lived it. He _lives_ it, sometimes. But to hear an android, void of emotion up until a couple of months ago, speak it back into existence tugs at him a little bit. Finally, Hank smiles.

“Yeah, Connor. I’m glad, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another fun one to write! this chapter has trans And gay stuff in it :^) enjoy!

Spring settles comfortably in Hank’s bones as they move further into the heart of April, their semi-daily walks becoming easier and easier. Hank feels the change when they get home after a walk, the tranquility invading his body even after a long day of work. And it’s good company, without even needing a conversation to be had. Connor appreciates his enthusiasm about it, which is always nice, and it wears Sumo out in a way that bring his puppy-like qualities back into the light.

Moreover, Hank decides for once in a very long time that he is truly _happy._ The pieces that make up the picture are all sorts of crooked and unique and broken but they fit, and he wouldn’t have it any way else. Even the nights that it gets bad, it’s still _not that bad_ , and that’s all he can ask for these days.

Sumo’s leash goes a little more slack in his hand as they continue their comfortably silent trek, three pairs of eyes combing the neighborhood curiously. Hank decides subconsciously that they’d have to head back home soon enough, but for right now, he lavishes the cloudy day, lavishes the exercise and togetherness gained from something so simple, walking the dog. The content simper on his lips never wavers.

\---

Alice is very shy and very quiet, and her favorite thing to do seems to be to sit at the table while Luther and Connor help her fill out a coloring book. Hank is intrigued by the action; it’s quiet in that corner of the house, but she looks content, nothing like the frightened little girl who came in clutching the back of her mother’s pants in desperation.

“So how long have you two been together?” Hank asks softly, mostly out of curiosity, as Kara’s legs slip up onto the couch with the rest of her. “Luther, I mean.”

“Ah, not long,” she returns, glancing over at him. “A couple of months. We met him on the way to Canada.” She pauses. “He was abused, too.”

“Hmm,” Hank says.

“I don’t even know if we’re a couple, or... I love him, but not like that?” she says, almost in question, as if she doesn’t quite get it herself. “He’s family, but not...”

“Yeah,” Hank says, absent-mindedly. “I get what you’re saying.”

“I think... we’re planning on getting married,” Kara states, too casually for the snap of the head it garners out of Hank. “Just for the benefits, you know. I want her to grow up in a better environment.”

“Ah, yeah.” He pauses. “So then just the license?”

“I don’t know.” Kara sighs. “We haven’t talked about it super in depth, but we’ve brought it up a couple of times. I think Alice would want us to have a _wedding_ , and I don’t really mind that either, but I don’t know if it’s really...”

“Really what?” Hank looks at her hard for a moment, her gaze stiff against the floor. After another pause, she shakes her head anxiously.

“Really what we need. If we don’t... _love_ each other.” Hank hums, drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he starts, a little softer. “I had a wedding. I had a husband. I had a kid. Did we really love each other, in the end? Nah. Well, maybe. But you two are closer than we were. Above all, it’s fun.” He stops, and thinks for a second. “Do you ever see yourself getting married otherwise?” Kara looks at him like he’s joking, and forces out a nervous laugh.

“I don’t know. I mean, maybe. I’ve never really thought about it before,” she returns, talking a lot faster. Hank offers her a smile. “Um, I mean, I just deviated months ago, and it’s like, we’ve been so caught up, I haven’t had time to think about... _living._ Just living. You know?” Hank nods.

“You know it’s okay to not be ready for something like that, too, right?” he asks. “The marriage license and the wedding dates don’t have to coincide. It’s fine if you can’t yet.”

“I know, I know, just...” She swallows. “For _her_ sake.”

“She’s got her life to live just like you got yours,” Hank settles, folding his hands. “Ultimately the decision is yours. Whatever it is you do I urge you to do what you _want,_ and not what you feel like you have to do. Making important decisions feel more like obligations than choices takes all the fun out of it. _Live,_ ” he finishes, nudging her, and Kara wears an anxious smile, nodding slowly after another pause.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I will. I’ll think about it some more. The _wedding,_ I mean,” she clarifies. “We are getting married. I want that to happen.” Hank smiles lightly.

“Listen, the benefits _are_ sweet,” he returns, and Kara laughs. The group at the kitchen table looks up as the stragglers make to join them, and Hank is immensely glad, between Kara, and Luther, who he’d determined to also be a wonderful person, that Connor had come into contact with the right kinds of people.

\---

“It’s a nice way to spend a weekend off. Domesticated animals often lead to increased dopamine levels in humans, and other, related endorphins,” Connor states randomly, on the way into their local animal shelter. Hank throws him a look, the interrupted silence grating.

“Uh, yeah,” he affirms, eyes focused in on him in question.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Nines inquired regarding our whereabouts and current task,” Connor explains, and Hank looks back at the android tailing him, expression placid and eyes searching.

“Does he like animals, too?” Hank asks, and Nines’ eyes snap into place on him.

“I’m not sure,” Connor responds, and then pauses. “He doesn’t know, either.”

“Hmm,” Hank says.

“Regardless,” Connor continues, “he expressed no sentiment in line with leaving, either.” There’s a look upon the taller android’s face that speaks volumes, though it’s typical. Hank likes it when he looks curious.

They’d been volunteering at the local shelter for what felt like ages. Hank knew, realistically, it could’ve only been a month or two, but it was homey enough to be forever at this point. Connor floated in between the two sections— the shelter separated cats and dogs, for good reason— freely while Hank stuck mostly, and unsurprisingly, to the dogs. It was simple work; cleaning cages, feeding animals, playing with them to keep them busy. Hank enjoyed it more than he dare let on, especially considering volunteers don’t get paid.

Their usual front desk lady checks them in for the day, and before things are split off, Nines stands in the aftermath of the encounter, looking confused. Hank almost stops on his way into the dog area, but Connor’s already approached the taller android and directed him towards the cat room.

Hank knows where his favorites are— unless, of course, they’ve been adopted, which he can’t stay mad about for too long. His three regulars are Pogo, some sort of bull terrier mix, a younger dog with a quiet bark and a lot of spring; Mars, a chocolate pug missing a leg, formal surname “Bars”; and Daisy, an old, grumpy lady of a mutt, unsure about the breed but Hank is positive she has some Afghan Hound in her. He knows the rest of the dogs enough as well, and they rouse into barks as Hank enters.

He goes down the line of cages with interest, checking for any new additions since the last time they’d been and for cages that likely needed a thorough scrubbing. The playroom is already busy, so he’s not too surprised by the few empty cages he passes by. Daisy, however, is splayed comfortably in her favorite corner, and he kneels when he reaches her.

“Hey, Daisy, c’mere, girl,” he calls, raising a hand to the chainlink door. She rises slowly and shakily, approaching at a delicate pace. She sniffs Hank’s hand and nothing more, other than give a gentle wag of the tail. Hank can’t blame her, in honesty; she can barely see, and he knows this. He’s not sure what he’ll do when— _if,_ he reminds himself— Sumo gets old. He decides, as she sinks back to the floor and he rises out of his makeshift squat that they’d cross that bridge when they come to it.

Connor approaches from behind after another ten minutes of browsing— and a short start to the afternoon feeding of the day— a smile on his features.

“Yes?” Hank says, as Connor stands there, rigid and expectant.

“Nines has found quite the home in the cat room,” Connor announces. “Though he does not believe he is a fan of animals.”

“Huh,” Hank says.

“He likes that cats are independent and that he need not do much more than observe,” Connor continues. “I don’t think he likes to touch them very much.”

“Interesting,” Hank states.

“Yes, it is,” Connor agrees, and his eyes flick around the room with curiosity. “I’m going to help out a little bit in here, now, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant.” Hank smiles softly.

“Not at all.”

\---

Hank honestly doesn’t remember getting shot being so _loud_. Maybe it’s a misconception; his android is definitely taking verbal custody of the suspect at the very least, and more shots are definitely being fired, but even as he lay clutching his bloody side in the gravel, it all seems _overblown._ Maybe this is what dying really is, he thinks. The slowness, the deafness, the wetness.

And then he’s _hoisted_ up and back against the wall and the noise returns all at once, the yells and gunshots of men a room over, Reed speaking so hurriedly into his walkie Hank can’t understand him, just how hard Hank is wheezing and breathing and...

God, if it weren’t for everything, he might wish he was dead. He might wish these were the final moments. Maybe there’s something almost pleasantly shocking about seeing your android come into focus, spattered with blood and expression hardened. He wastes no time in jerking Hank to his feet again, the older man wobbling horrifically in place while he holds his side and is forced to stumble out of the building, slowly but surely, a firm and steady grip looped about his shoulders and clutching the fabric of his coat like its got nothing better to do.

It’s strange to see, Connor’s expression contorted into something so serious. It comforts Hank, to a degree, to know how stable he is in this position, with his human close to bleeding out at his side. Hank doesn’t remember much more about the situation besides Connor’s expression until he jerks awake on the couch, his vision swimming.

“Connor?” he calls, automatically, attempting to sit up before a sharp pain stabs into his side. Right. He got shot.

“I’m here, Lieutenant,” comes the even voice from his right, Connor seated plainly in the armchair.

“What happened?” Hank asks, voice small as he rubs a palm over his eyes.

“Medical dispatch was able to repair you on the fly,” Connor says. “No stitches necessary, or surgical interference. They bandaged the area carefully and ordered me to keep an eye on you.” A pause hangs in the room.

“I’m guessing you’ve been sitting there for...” Hank trails off, realizing it’s now dark out.

“Six hours and twelve minutes,” Connor returns, automatically, and Hank does a double take. “Although scanners indicated you were merely resting, I must admit I found myself... worried,” he adds, quietly, and Hank cracks a tired smile.

“Different from the other end, huh?” he asks.

"What?”

“Never mind.” Hank pauses. “Thanks, kid.” Connor meets eyes with him again, and cocks his head.

“Lieutenant, there’s no reason to express gratitude in this situation,” he states, matter-of-factly, and Hank closes his eyes, contented.

“Sure there is.”

“But—“

“I’m goin’ back to sleep,” he interrupts, “since it seems like I can’t sit up too well.”

“Captain Fowler said five days, with caution,” Connor responds.

“Whatever. You don’t have to keep an eye on me this time, okay?” Hank says, cracking open an eye of his own to meet Connor’s; his neutral expression is so much softer, he thinks.

“I prefer to reside in this position, Lieutenant, but thank you,” the android placates, and Hank closes his eyes again, smiling.

\---

Hank feels honestly that he knows most of the things about Connor. His likes, his tells, which seat on the couch is his favorite. He feels so honestly about this that he’s struck and rendered silent at the scene he’s currently witnessing in the kitchen when he walks in from a quick run to the store. North was over, and how quickly things had devolved in the 20 minutes he had been out of the house.

The two sat upon the linoleum floor like that, alone, was normal, but the weirdest part about the scene was how many limbs they were missing, the detached parts scattered about like a crime scene.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” Hank forces himself to ask, quite loudly, while Connor helps to attach a leg back onto North.

“We discovered the other day many of our biocomponents are compatible,” Connor explains, almost singingly, the smile never leaving his face.

“It’s a bit of fun, Lieutenant, cool your jets,” North puts in, waving her new leg— which Hank supposes is Connor’s— around for emphasis.

“The fun that can be had isn’t even the best part,” Connor continues, giddy now, and motioning for North to do something. To Hank’s surprise, the both of them remove their shirts in quick succession, and Hank is forced face-to-face with the reality that he’s never seen Connor shirtless before; there sits his chest, the piece of his chassis presumably mimicking _breasts_. He’s shaken enough to be rendered silent until they both remove part of their skin and detach their chest panels— rectangular, with small half-circles cut out the bottom, and, Hank notes, North’s is undeniably flat— and switch them, like nothing.

“Ta-da!” exclaims Connor, now sporting a completely flat chest. North plays around a small amount more with her synthetic skin, now adjusting to the protruding chassis piece, before beaming up at the human. Hank still has nothing to say for what feels like an eon, before he finally shakes himself out of his thoughts.

“Wha... Wait, so, is...” He pauses, taking the time to point at North’s exposed chest. “Is that—“

“Yes. That piece belonged to my model, initially,” Connor states, proudly.

“I wanted it more,” North proclaims. “So we switched. No big deal.” Hank takes the information in much more slowly than he anticipates he will, still trying to rationalize the fact that, apparently, androids can be trans. Or whatever the robotic equivalent might be, Hank thinks.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Nice. Uh, please put your legs... and the rest of your arms, back on. We’ve gotten enough blue blood on that floor as is.”

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor says, reaching with a singular hand for one of North’s detached arms. He leaves them alone in the aftermath, taking a seat on the couch with the groceries and thinking through the events that transpired in five minutes.

\---

Connor’s writhing on the floor unceremoniously, face down, by the time Hank arrives at his side, his arms and fingers flexing in front of him strangely. The guys had been caught, thankfully, but Hank was still beside himself about how he was currently spending 3 A.M. leaning over the slightly bloodied body of his partner instead of literally anywhere else.

“Connor, hey—“ Connor’s arm snaps to attention as he grabs his shoulders. “It’s just me, buddy, come on, let’s get you up.” He’d witnessed the blow; baseball bat right to the back of Connor’s head. He hadn’t gone down immediately, as it’s somehow necessary to sweep your attacker and _then_ drop into a heap at his feet, but it gave them the sort of buffer needed to arrest the two. Hank’s adrenaline is still going twenty minutes later, and he tells himself it’s just because Connor hasn’t moved fully since the incident.

Hank grabs an arm and wraps his other around Connor’s shoulders, hoisting him onto his feet slowly. The android reacts now, his eyes growing wide suddenly, but he still says nothing.

“Connor?” Hank tries again, looking him in the face now. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

It takes a moment or two for Connor’s eyes to focus on Hank. He blinks. “Hank?” He says, finally.

“Yeah, come on,” Hank says, tugging him in the direction of the door. “We got the guys, let’s go.”

“Hank,” Connor repeats. Hank tugs him again, but Connor remains firmly planted.

“ _What?_ The fuck’s the matter with you?” he finally spits.

“Let’s go home,” Connor suggests, exasperatedly. “I have... I appear to be missing a word. I have, something, about installing pain sensors in my head. Perhaps I should rescind all of those downloads.” Hank stares at him for a long time.

“Regrets?” Hank finally asks, and Connor smiles, brightly.

“Yes, that’s it! Let’s go home,” he says again, in the same cadence. It clicks.

“Okay, you’re concussed,” Hank accuses. “Duh.” Connor has no response to this as they exit the building towards the car, which is odd.

“Nonsense,” he states, about a minute late, and Hank rolls his eyes.

“Just get in the car.” Connor does as he’s told, and Hank does the same, beginning to drive away while trying to ignore both the paperwork he’ll have to tussle with tomorrow and the issue he’s currently tussling with right now. Connor sits rigid and silent as they drive, his eyes glazed over slightly and focused on nothing in particular. It’s a little unsettling, if Hank is honest with himself, and he wishes absently he’d maybe bandaged that spot on his head up before they left.

Back home, Connor exits the car with a flourish, grasping it for leverage briefly. It’s as they’re traversing the concrete up to the front door that he finally speaks again.

“Lieutenant, I think I might have a concussion,” he confesses, seriously, before he doubles over and vomits blue blood up right into the yard. Hank grimaces at the sight, turning the key in the lock quicker.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he says. “Come here, Connor, let’s fix that.”

Inside, Connor squats to Sumo’s eye level, looking over him precariously as he pets him. Hank rummages through the drawers in the kitchen, producing a roll of bandages and an extra packet of Thirium from the fridge, which they’d decided to buy in bulk the last time a replenishment store came into necessity, for times like this.

“Lieutenant Anderson, do you have the lights on in here? It’s much brighter than usual,” the android remarks. Hank doesn’t answer as he approaches and wraps the wound on his head, wary of the sticky mess that already existed of it.

“Here,” Hank says, handing Connor the blue blood. “Go sit down.” Connor follows the order once again, wobbling slightly on his feet but making it to the couch in one piece. Hank stares as he holds the Thirium packet, further and further bothered by the lack of action. “Drink it, dummy.”

“Lieutenant, I assure you—“ He takes a long pause in the middle of the sentence, suddenly looking struck.

“What?”

“My system... Minimal damages were sustained so minimal Thirium replenishment is necessary. Minimal replenishment is necessary, I mean,” he says, and Hank shakes his head.

“Look, I’m sorry that your shit’s malfunctioning right now, or whatever—“

“Standby maintenance will likely fix issues,” Connor puts in, a bit quickly.

“— _Please,_ for my sake, drink it, please,” Hank begs, flopping down into the armchair.

“Fine,” Connor returns stiffly. He cracks it open after a moment, and examines it shortly before beginning to down the blue liquid. Hank heaves a sigh of relief, realizing suddenly he’s never dealt with something like this before, and maybe they should’ve gone to some sort of professional instead of immediately home. He can’t be bothered to care _that_ much, however; despite the obvious symptoms, Connor is coherent, and capable of function, and Hank figures that’s probably better than most concussion— or whatever the android equivalent might be— cases anyway.

Connor’s LED continues to click yellow, even after he’s finished with the packet, dropped carefully onto the coffee table.

“It hurts,” he says, absently, and a hand moves to grasp at the back of his head.

“Hey, don’t mess with those bandages,” Hank orders firmly, and Connor pauses in place. “Didn’t you say standby could fix this?”

“Did I? I must have,” he concludes, dumb-founded. “Yes, I think standby maintenance will likely fix some of the issues.”

“Okay,” Hank says, gesturing to the empty space on the couch. “I’ll be here, or whatever.”

“Good night, Lieutenant,” Connor says, cheerfully, before he lays down on his back, feet hanging over the arm of the couch, and carefully locks into his sleep mode. Hank’s brow creases, further wondering about whether or not they should’ve contacted an actual android technician. He’s more than positive Connor is going to be fine— he always is, after all— but it doesn’t stop him from being worried. If the android’s short term memory loss was any less irritating he might have found himself freaking out about the situation. Instead, he examines the slowly clicking, dull yellow LED on the android’s forehead and settles in for the night, sighing to himself.

\---

Gavin hmms. “Higher.”

“Okay,” Hank whispers. “Five. Lower.”

“Five,” Gavin returns, crossing his arms. The very small huddle breaks, and Hank turns to Connor, orderly.

“Connor.”

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, not looking up from his terminal.

“Do me a favor and search ‘President Warren parody,’ ‘n’ tell me how many results you get,” Hank incites, and Connor rolls his eyes (at which Hank smiles shortly) before his LED cycles yellow and he stays still in thought.

“I found 8,702,543 results,” Connor answers, and turns back to his terminal. Hank swings around in his chair, arms crossed.

“Gav?”

“Damn,” Detective Reed hisses, a hand on his forehead. “‘Approximately 8,600,000 results’. Bullshit.”

“Hah,” Hank chuckles at his expense, holding out a hand. “Pay up.”

It was a game they’d started some weeks earlier— Hank just liked to call it Google Search, but Gavin was insistent on replacing the ‘Google’ with Connor’s name. Sometimes the rest of the precinct was in on it, but most of the time it was a quiet back and forth between Hank and Gavin, and Hank found himself more than fine with it.

“Hey,” Gavin begins once he’s handed Hank his five. “You know what? We haven’t tried it with mine yet.” Their eyes flick to Nines, standing about three feet away from Gavin and staring them down.

“Okay,” Hank says, feeling sly. “Your search. Ten.”

“Deal, deal, uh, okay, uh... ‘scared cat yowl’,” Gavin suggests, and Hank shrugs.

“Er. Higher.”

“Lower, then, alright.” Gavin crosses his arms and then turns to Nines, whose gaze is already boring into him. “Niner, search that for me, will ya?” Nines’ eyes narrow in just the slightest, easily missable for someone who isn’t used to his signals, but his LED goes yellow, and he stands there, silent for a time. Hank and Gavin stare on expectantly, but Nines remains silent for a minute or two longer. Hank thinks it’s a really long time to google something.

Finally, Connor puts in, “He got 12,437,802,445 results,” almost singingly, and Gavin swears as he slams his desk. Nines offers the slightest smile as Gavin forks over more money to a smug Hank, and then curtly closes his google tab.

\---

Hank stands, bewildered, in the kitchen, staring at the living room, which maybe just looks a little more untidied than usual.

“Fuckin’ robots,” he breathes.

“Lieutenant!” Connor calls from the couch, staring at him in warning. Alice is seated in his lap.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hank mumbles. “Just weird. Parties with my friends always left the place trashed,” he continues, and then shuts up, feeling self-conscious about addressing his past.

“There’s no need for food debris if you do not consume food,” Connor states, flatly. “Or... don’t wish to.”

“Yeah, yeah...” Hank waves him off, setting his jaw and then putting his hands on his hips. “Did you at least have fun?”

“I did,” Connor returns, brightly, and then glances at his remaining companions— Markus and Kara, seated to his left, and Nines, indistinctly in the adjacent armchair.

“I still don’t claim to understand video games, but it was an enjoyable experience,” Markus affirms with a sheepish grin.

“Alice was unfamiliar with _Mario Party,_ ” Kara says, glancing over at her daughter.

“They’re good games,” Hank says, and seats himself in the kitchen. “You guys can stay as long as you want, by the way.” The couch guests offer him a smile— a proper smile, from the both of them, and Connor is much too busy with the child to notice. Hank relaxes now, most of the company gone. He’d never realized how unfit his home was to house more than three people, and especially not ten. But now that the noise has died down all the way and North’s shouts of competitiveness are a thing of the past, he almost feels he misses it, or perhaps misses his own version of it. His version, thirty years ago.

Hank sighs, resting his elbow on the edge of the kitchen table, and watches intently as his android interacts with his best friends, expression beyond joviality. Markus reaches around to touch his thigh, and Hank cocks an eyebrow, feeling nosy once more. Nines has surely noticed it too, his LED cycling yellow. Hank muffles a chuckle when they meet eyes, and he stands with purpose, as if there’s anything to clean in the already pristine kitchen.

\---

Connor takes a phone call on the way to work, a minute out of the driveway and aloud. Hank figures whoever’s on the other end is using an actual phone, as he’d told Connor to mute himself or speak through LEDs wherever possible, to avoid being rude. Curiosity overtakes him as Connor answers, and he goes into autopilot, driving, as he attempts to listen in.

“Hi, North.” He pauses. “Yes, about Markus.” What about Markus? “Why?” Another pause. Hank is getting tired of noting the pauses and decides to try and focus in on what little speech he can make out on the other end. 

“You’re better friends with him than I am. I need it, and I am not skilled at talking to people... No I’m not. Not well.” Hank can tell North is chastising him. “What? ...Why would I say that? ...Ah, I understand. I don’t have to believe it. Okay, North, you are so cool, and so much cooler than me.” Hank can’t help but giggle, and Connor glances over with something like contempt in his gaze. “We can talk about it later, we’re on the way to work... Yes? ...Kara? But I just said— Uh, okay.”

“Connor,” Hank says in warning, as they pull into the station parking lot.

“Sure, I have to go now. I can text you. Thank you, and goodbye, North.” He seemingly hangs up, and then goes silent.

“What was that about?” Hank asks, before they exit the car.

“Lieutenant, you always seem awfully entwined within the nuances of my personal life,” he says, clearly on a mission to keep whatever it was they’d just discussed a secret.

“Mind me for bein’ nosy about a guy I spend every waking moment with’s business,” Hank retorts. Connor doesn’t have an answer to that. As they begin to leave the car, Nines, still and silent up until now, motions for Hank’s attention.

“In the way of aiding romantic advances on persons of interest,” he speaks, aloud, surprising both Hank and Connor, and just as Hank cracks a cheeky smile, Connor’s cheeks burn a deep blue.

“I’m chastised for eavesdropping, and he receives positive reinforcement?” Connor declares, and now Hank laughs fully.

“That’s why he’s my favorite,” Hank says, jokingly, but the phrase strikes a chord with the androids, who stare at him deathly. Hank understands Connor’s forlorn expression, but Nines looking so perturbed doesn’t add up. “Jesus, you two, it was a joke. It was a joke! Why are you so touchy today, Connor?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he says, his voice smaller than usual. “I am... stressed.”

“Why?” Hank asks, dumbfounded. He’d been extra careful about his anxious stims this morning, evidently, because Hank wants to hit himself for not noticing.

“I’m not sure how to tell Markus that I... like him,” he confesses, and the words feel alien to the both of them. Nines makes eye contact with Hank for the split second he takes his eyes off Connor, and Hank understands what he’s insinuating even when the taller android’s gaze returns to Connor a second later.

“You... sit him down, and you tell him,” Hank says, curtly, opening the door for his androids. “You don’t even have to sit him down, if you don’t want. You just find the right moment.”

“How do I know if a moment is the correct one?” Connor asks, looking back at him in confusion. Hank gives him a half a smile as he tails them into the precinct, shrugging.

“Usually it just feels right. Like, you’ll just know,” he says.

“That doesn’t comfort me very much,” Connor returns, and Hank laughs.

“Don’t worry about it. I think... Well, let’s just say it’s probably easier than however you’re making it out to be in your head.”

“Was it easy for you, Lieutenant?” he asks, suddenly, and Hank blanches. He has to think about it for a short, pressured moment, as now both of them are staring him down.

“Uh... no. But I mean, that was years ago,” he responds, shrugging it off. “I’ll share a secret with you, though: I used to have a crush on Fowler. Never told him. Ain’t that ridiculous?”

“‘Used to?’” Connor says, in a tone much too incredulous, which makes an embarrassed dread seat itself in Hank’s stomach. “I’ve seen the way you interact with him, Lieutenant, or insist on interacting. The signs are evident.”

“What?” Hank forces out. It’s silent for a moment, and both of the androids smile.

“Nines agrees it was fairly obvious. From the start.” His face heats up as Connor continues talking about it, glad he’d found the will to change the subject to something more comfortable, and a little less glad it had something to do with an, up until then, and in his eyes, well-kept secret of Hank’s.

“Okay, okay, I get it, shut up, ‘fore he hears you,” Hank silences him quickly as they take their seats at their desks, but Connor’s sly gaze remains in place. “I won’t be so damn nosy if _that’s_ my punishment, but I’m just sayin’, seize your moment.” Connor hums, mulling it over, and Nines, expression neutral once more, meets eyes with Hank again.

“Okay,” Connor replies, simply, and they move to pretend that they are, yet again, busy.

\---

“You got him hooked on these, too?” Hank asks, scanning the TV blearily.

“He enjoys researching the flora,” Connor states from his right, eyes focused intensely on the documentary. “Though, not as much with the ocean. Our tastes differ by more than I perhaps anticipated.” Nines is silent to Hank’s left, likely not even paying the conversation any mind; his LED is spinning a rapid yellow as his eyes dart around the screen, taking in the lush greens and browns. Hank cocks his head slightly, months later still managing to be impressed by androids’ inherent fascination with nature. Maybe it isn’t inherent, but his only experience is with these two.

“So he’s the plant guy and you’re the animal guy, huh?” Hank says, turning back to Connor.

“I suppose, if that's a classification humans often assign,” he returns.

“Hmm,” Hank says, and focuses on the documentary again. Sometimes he wishes honestly that it was appealing to him as it was to them, the beauty of the earth. He recognized it; he just felt no need to wallow in it. And he fully understood why an android fresh into themselves might. Still, it allowed Hank to long for something; that unspoken connection. Sitting and watching jungles sway enough to make you feel something.

“That’s cool,” Hank says, and his eyes don’t leave the documentary again.

\---

“—three weeks, four days, two hours and twelve minutes since the last ‘incident’, Nines, you—“

Hank isn’t listening to the chatter on the other side of the desk. Something had happened and he was _struggling_ not to insert himself into the middle of it.

“— _counted?!_ Why the fuck would you count that sort of—“

“—still isn’t—“

“—this situation, obviously, Detective Reed, maybe if you—“

“Okay, _hey!_ ” Hank shouts above the noise, jerking his head up to stare at the three huddled around Connor’s desk. They freeze instantly, eyes on the Lieutenant. “Will you guys just work this out, and shut it already? Some people are tryin’ to do work.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” mumbles Connor, sheepish.

“Look, I’m just sayin’ I didn’t _do_ nothin’,” Gavin says, quieter, throwing his hands up in defense.

“You touched him,” Nines suggests, his voice cold, eyes boring into the human.

“Yeah, numbnuts, you’ve touched him too—“

“You know exactly what I—“ 

“ _Hey_ ,” Connor interrupts in the same cadence— lacking in the intensity, however— Hank had used. Hank doesn’t bother looking up, but he does smile a bit. “Can we just call this ‘deal’ ‘not very big’, and go our separate ways?”

“He tried to gut me,” Gavin reminds him.

“And who knows what you were going to do to Connor,” Nines returns evenly.

“It was _gentle_ , I didn’t even—” They start to argue again as before, and Connor looks lost in between the two of them. Hank stifles a giggle at the scene, his android trapped helplessly between two danger zones. He’s never heard Nines _talk_ so much, it has to be important to let his voicebox grate in the way it had to be grating.

“Nines,” Connor says eventually, placing a hand on the younger android’s arm to still him. They meet eyes and their LEDs cycle yellow, Gavin left standing dumbfounded in the silence. Hank watches curiously, now resting his chin on his wrists. Finally, after a time, Nines turns back to Gavin, his expression no longer containing the subdued sourness it had held just moments before.

“Detective Reed, I am sorry,” he says, voice low and stiff, and then marches off in the direction of his own desk. Gavin looks as floored as he was a minute ago, his eyes darting to meet Connor’s in confusion. Connor shrugs at him, innocently, and after another moment, Gavin begins a slow walk back to his desk.

“What even happened?” Hank asks, low— all he had heard was the initial, booming _’Detective Reed.’_ from Nines, and then a scuffle. He was surprised Fowler hadn’t come out of his office to shut the gaggle up afterwards. Connor doesn’t look up from his terminal, his face betraying his opinion of the situation in the form of a small, amused smile.

“While in the break room, the Detective tapped my shoulder to show me an image of a dog,” he says, and Hank doesn’t bother to quiet his raucous laughter.

\---

It’s been months, and he still struggles getting used to coming home to things strangely and completely amiss. He doesn’t bother to pose the question to the air; he knows Connor will answer the moment he seats himself down on the couch, anyway.

“Nines expressed interest in going ‘junkyarding’ today,” he explains, plugging another wire from Hank’s, oddly, dragged into the kitchen, computer into Nines’ nape port. “We found an old WB200 drive he wished to study, to see if any of the pre-programmed information was still usable.”

“Mmm,” Hank says.

“As it turns out, a great deal of agricultural knowledge was still intact within the drive, and he is currently downloading that knowledge so that he may study flora much more up close,” Connor concludes, proudly. Nines stares at Hank with a blank expression.

“Doesn’t explain why you’re taller than he is right now,” Hank points out.

“We switched legs for the day,” Connor affirms.

“Or why you’re stripped down to your t-shirt and boxers.”

“It is hot outside.”

“ _Or_ why he’s holdin’ Sumo.”

“Emotional comfort.” The dog woofs, as if sensing his name being called. Hank can’t do much more than sigh, staring over the odd scene with much too little surprise.

“Okay,” he says. “Just don’t fuck up my computer.”

“Got it, Lieutenant,” Connor assures him, and then goes back to plugging wires into the younger android.

\---

“ _Hank_.” It’s strained, drawn out. Connor doesn’t usually _call_. Hank bolts upright, positive he’s hurt.

“Connor? Connor, what’s the matter, where are you, are you hurt?” he forces out into the phone, almost tumbling off the couch in his urgency to get presentable enough to drive.

“I’m... I’ll be home in six minutes and twenty seconds,” Connor says, and then abruptly hangs up, which leaves Hank more stressed than he was _before_ that answer. Surely he’s freaking himself out over nothing; even when injured, Connor doesn’t take that tone of voice. In fact, the last time Hank can remember Connor being so stressed out that he can barely form sentences coherently was the night he’d been _shot_ , when he almost—

“Sumo!” he calls, absently, to distract himself from the thought that was seconds away from entering his mind. The big dog bounds over, clearly sensing Hank’s tension and wagging his tail yet.

He goes out back with the dog briefly, to take some hearty gulps of air and steel himself; Connor would’ve _told him_ if something was damaged, certainly. _Or would he?_ Hank surmised, his own worst enemy. The android seemed ever so concerned with sparing Hank’s feelings and worries half the time, maybe he’d kept it to himself for fear of disrupting Hank’s routine.

The tennis ball hits the fence with a wet sort of thunk, falling into the mud a moment later. Sumo fetches it back cheerily, dropping the ball in Hank’s outstretched hand. He tosses it again, and again, as many times as he feels he needs to. It feels like the longest six minutes of his life.

It’s only when he’s back inside, tucked anxiously onto the couch, that the door opens and Connor rushes in, catching the both of them by surprise. He doesn’t _look_ hurt, but stress is evident on his facial features.

“Connor!” Hank calls, standing to steady the android. “Connor, hey, what’s the matter? Talk to me, kid!” Connor doesn’t react for some time, merely staring up into Hank’s eyes in distress with his mouth hanging slightly agape. Finally, he moves, jittery, signing the word ‘sit’ over and over in his desperation and current inability to speak. Hank seats them both on the couch after a moment more, brushing his bangs out of his face spastically.

“Connor, look, buddy, I know it’s hard right now but you gotta tell me what’s up so I can help,” he coaxes, speaking softer but not any slower. Connor’s hands stretch and flap anxiously in his lap, clearly searching for his coin, but Hank doesn’t know where it is. Finally, the android’s mouth closes, and he nods curtly. They sit in silence for a minute while Hank allows Connor to gain his bearings— he’d signed a simple ‘one moment’ after Hank’s second declaration— feet tapping the ground nervously. Sumo hovers nearby, offering a low whimper once.

“Okay,” Connor says, nodding still. “Okay. I’m sorry.” He pauses, and swallows, for effect. “I told Markus.” Hank freezes, taking in the words slower than anticipated.

“Huh?” he says.

“I— told Markus. How I believe I feel,” Connor explains, softly. It finally clicks with Hank, and his first instinct is to reprimand Connor for scaring him half to death. But he doesn’t react immediately, and even though, he concludes, it’s not a very big deal in his eyes, it is to Connor, new to the experience altogether, and so Hank steels himself.

“Shit. Okay, uh... How’d it go?” he asks, tentatively. Connor shakes his head.

“I don’t know.”

“...What?”

“I left immediately after I told him,” Connor continues. “I had called an automated taxi approximately seven minutes earlier. I’m not sure if he had anything to say about it because I said ‘Goodbye, Markus’, and then left the Manfred residence.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Hank mutters, all but melting against the back of the couch. Connor cocks his head.

“I’m sorry. Was that course of action less than favorable?” He takes a moment, and shakes his head. “Of course it was. What was I thinking.”

“No, uh...” Hank runs a hand down his face gently, eyebrows furrowing. “Okay. No, it’s fine. Why don’t you call him?” Connor reels back, as if struck.

“Lieutenant, _certainly_ he hates me, now, I can’t call,” he says, exasperatedly, and Hank rolls his eyes. 

“You really are too human for your own good,” Hank mutters. “No, look, if you call, you can just sort this out, ‘cause he’s probably pretty confused, and...” He trails off, thinking back to the once he’d seen Markus purposefully touch Connor’s thigh, and all the glances they’d shared. “I’m _pretty sure_ he doesn’t hate you,” he finishes, and Connor stares at him blankly for a moment.

“Are you certain?” he asks, hushed. Hank nods soundly. “Well... Alright,” he breathes. His LED blinks in a circle before settling on a bright blue. He visibly trembles in place, clearly concerned for the conversation about to take place. “Hi, Markus.” Hank waits, listening in as Connor chats aloud to the room, still clearly unsure. Gradually, his facial expression contorts into that of, what Hank would call, shock, his eyes focused on nothing as he nearly silently agrees to unspoken questions.

“...Okay. Friday. Thank you. Bye,” he says, before the light of the LED softens and he keys back into his surroundings, and Hank stares, curiously.

“Well?” Connor meets eyes with him, still dumbfounded. Hank guesses the outcome before Connor even tells him, and it makes an ugly smile creep onto his features.

“We are... going on a date, Friday night,” Connor breathes, at length. After a moment, his cheeks flush a light blue. “He said he thought it was... ‘cute’. My fleeing from the scene.”

“Oh, that is _priceless,_ ” Hank chuckles, emphatic. “What did I tell you?”

“A date,” Connor repeats, to himself, ignoring Hank’s jab. Eventually, his expression beams, almost as if in realization. “Oh my god. A date.”

“A date!” Hank exclaims, enthusiastic for the android’s victory.

Connor, clearly lacking in experience dealing with exciting events, mutters another, “Oh my god,” and then adds, “That’s good,” and Hank can’t help himself but to laugh.

“I’m happy for you, buddy,” he says, clapping him on the back. “Also, I told you so.”

“Sure,” Connor offers, curt, and Hank laughs again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another fun one to write! after the central conflicts of the story have, Overall, passed, i tried to keep these latter chapters and scenes as ripe with fun and obvious development as possible so Please feel free to leave feedback ;_;  
> im also sorry once again i still havent found the time to reply to all of your comments! ive been working a lot recently but im touched so many of you liked ch7 so much! that being said, enjoy this one!

Connor’s recklessness had peaked since his re-induction into the service, and though it brought a smile to Hank’s face to see him chasing suspects down with the same spunk he had some months ago, it came with some consequences. For one, the android was more prone to breaking limbs than he was before, and Hank had to physically restrain him out of situations that would likely have ended up with him dead. It wasn’t that Connor didn’t recognize the threat associated with the possibility of deactivation on in-the-field cases, but his enjoyment of his work had a tendency to stretch beyond what _should_ happen, into what _could_ happen.

As such, Hank had to explain to him why it made more sense to just sit back and let his biocomponents heal instead of replacing them every time he did something disastrous to a limb; he was eager, and wasn’t keen on desk-jockeying for even the short recovery time. Hank had taken him out with an arm in a sling or a foot in a cast multiple times, nonetheless— cases Hank was certain wouldn’t put Connor in any more danger. He seemed to find it anyway, usually, and Hank was shocked he himself hadn’t died to a heart attack multiple times by now.

As of yesterday, Connor was confined to his chair, both an arm in a sling and a knee with a splint. He was technically supposed to keep his weight off of the leg, but Hank had forced the crutch into his hand multiple times, with pushback, and it was clear he was starting to get irritated.

“Connor,” Hank calls, warningly, catching the android moving in his periphery. “If you’re getting up you better have that crutch.”

“I don’t need it,” Connor returns, quickly, and Hank looks up to see him rising from his seat.

“The technician said you do,” he retorts, pointedly.

“One functioning leg is enough,” Connor says, flatly.

“Oh, so you’re gonna _walk_ with _one leg?_ ” Connor pauses in place, turning his aggravated gaze toward Hank. “Look, Con, the fact of the matter is, by _not_ following directions you can make it worse than it already is, and be stuck in a splint with a crutch for _much longer_ than four days. Is that what you want?” A silence hangs. Connor glances downward, examining himself, and then hesitantly places his free hand on the crutch.

“No,” he sighs, defeated. Hank sits back, tapping a pen against his desk.

“You’d never last if you were a human,” he says, and Connor turns to look at him in exasperation. “I mean... with how much of a goddamn workaholic you are? Sometimes broken stuff gets us down for _weeks_ while it heals. I tore my ACL on a case when I was thirty-somethin’, and it took like 8 months for that shit to recover. You’d never last.” Connor tries to continue looking annoyed with him, but Hank wears a smile that softens the android’s gaze, appreciating the sentiment.

“I’d likely have a meltdown of some sort,” he comments, and Hank laughs.

“Probably! If _four days_ gets your goat as hard as it does. Your arm is supposed to be good by today, though,” Hank adds, and Connor nods.

“I can flex my phalanges and roll my shoulder with little trouble; it doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t land on it again,” Hank chuckles, and Connor throws him an amused, albeit warning, grimace.

“I caught the suspect, didn’t I?”

“You did, Mr. Star Pupil. Mind me for caring about your wellbeing,” Hank offers, “now that you don’t have a _backup body_ in case you croak.” The air turns more grave at that comment, and Hank processes what he’d said about thirty seconds too late.

“I suppose you’re right, Lieutenant,” Connor remarks, quietly, and to Hank’s surprise. “I probably should exercise more caution.”

“Yeah.” Hank pauses, playing with his hands in his lap. “I know you like what you do, but you’re gonna confine me to an early grave with the stress you put me under, buddy.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, candidly.

“It’s a’right.” Hank waves him off. “Your apology can be acting more carefully when we’ve got an active case, yeah?”

“Got it,” Connor responds, shortly, and promptly sinks back down into his chair, abandoning the crutch in place. Hank notes the way his un-injured hand flexes in place, fingers tapping against the desk in quiet search of his quarter. Hank pauses; maybe he’d tell him about the case Fowler emailed him about tomorrow, just in case.

\---

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

Hank’s nosy. He’s more than nosy, in fact; this is probably creepy. But it’s not his fault he can’t sleep like he said he was going to when Markus came over. He’s not really sure what they’re doing on his couch, but he knows, rationally, he probably shouldn’t be listening. He sort of wishes he’d left the house with Nines some hour or so earlier.

“And that?”

“ _Yes,_ Markus,” Connor insists, his voice soft and muffled by the almost-closed door. “I promise I will tell you if anything becomes uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” Markus returns, even, and so soft Hank can barely hear it. Silence follows and Hank lays back on his bed, wishing silently he could at least be out there watching the game. But he didn’t want to invade Connor’s privacy, truthfully; it was the first time he’d had Markus over since they began formally dating, and Hank wanted to give them the space they deserved to be intimate if need be. Connor being comfortable around Hank was a given, but it was imperative he be comfortable in situations where Hank wasn’t around, either, for one reason or another. Hank was adamant about that.

Their whispering had started back up and Hank wasn’t listening anymore, checking Facebook on his phone for lack of anything better to do. Sumo stirs absently by his feet, the dog having curled up and fallen asleep earlier, and Hank shifts his legs out of the way. He’s alerted, suddenly, by the sound of soft footsteps down the hallway, and then a knock, at his door, and he scrambles to quickly put away his phone and go back to feigning sleep.

“Lieutenant?” Connor calls, almost as quietly as Hank had ever heard him, opening the door wider slowly. Maybe he _was_ getting better at volume control, Hank notes.

“Huh?” he mutters, pretending to wake and rolling over to peer at Connor, sticking his head through the opening of the door.

“I’m going to spend the night with Markus,” he states, and Hank balks silently when he doesn’t ask permission. Not that he needed it, of course, but he often did ask, regardless. “Are you going to be alright in the morning if I’m not here on time to wake you?”

“What? Yeah, ‘f course, go on,” he pushes, waving in his direction.

“Alright. Call me if you need anything,” Connor whispers, and then disappears behind the door, shutting it gently. Hank, now enveloped fully in the darkness of his bedroom, relaxes against his sheets, silently proud of how far the android had come. He felt at peace; Connor had a partner and a circle of friends he felt comfortable enough to stay out with, and his spark for work had returned. Hank was surprised by the energy those revelations gave to him— another person’s happiness being his own. He decides to lavish in it, and try to sleep while he can. And, well, if he can’t, the game is still waiting for him on the DVR.

\---

It is, admittedly, a little weird waking up to a house by yourself. Hank still gets up at 7, because it’s been too long now to break that habit, but as he stands in the kitchen, making toast and coffee for himself without the noise of the TV and Connor’s often enthusiastic morning chatter in the background, things feel a little hollow, a little unlike they have in a while. The last time Hank had woken up to a vacant house was those nights Connor was in the hospital— it wasn’t a memory he liked to relive, and he found himself moving faster to leave the silence behind.

The quiet drive is just as odd; it isn’t that they talk much on the way into work, either, but Connor and Nines being present is enough to breathe life into the car. Instead, Hank cranks the radio, and steels himself for the day, counting off all the good that had come of today so far, including how quickly he’d gotten out of bed and how awake he currently is.

When he pulls in, Connor is already sitting at his desk, and he offers an enthusiastic smile when Hank sits down at his own.

“Good Morning, Lieutenant.”

“Mornin’.”

“Did you sleep well?” he questions.

“Fine,” Hank says, and stops himself when he realizes he’s being short for no reason. “I mean, uh... yeah, I did.”

“That’s good,” Connor states, and his eyes flick back to his terminal. No psychoanalysis or any sign Connor was looking him over for proof he was lying. Maybe Hank really had slept well.

“Did you have a good night?” he forces himself to ask, and Connor smiles again.

“Yes, I did,” he returns. “His brother was back from the rehabilitation center, but he was kind enough to let us alone.” Hank stares in the aftermath of that sentence, struggling to parse its meaning.

“Huh? Brother?”

“Oh. Leo Manfred is Carl’s biological son, and Markus’ technical sibling. He was being rehabilitated for drug abuse over the past couple of months,” Connor explains, looking back up from his terminal.

“Oh,” Hank says. “Uh. Cool.” He sits in silence for a moment as Connor goes back to his work again, and turns, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. Sure enough, as he turns he meets eyes with Nines, bent over to talk to Gavin. Hank looks at him in question, but, gleaning no response other than a gentle nod in that direction, turns back to stare at the android across from him as presumably prompted, and that’s when he notices.

It’s so subtle, Hank’s almost sure he’s imagining it, the slight patch of discoloration on Connor’s neck. There are two spots, now that he’s really examining him, so faint it really could be a trick of the light. Hank pieces it together a second late, when Connor’s LED clicks a small pattern of yellow and his eyes snap to attention, looking past Hank to meet eyes with Nines, still apparently hovering in the back. He reaches up absently to rub the space Hank had been staring at seconds earlier, and he’s left a little dumbfounded; he didn’t know androids could get _hickeys._

“What?” Connor demands, suddenly, and Hank realizes he’s been staring at him this whole time.

“Uh, nothin’. Zonin’ out.” He leans back in his chair and turns his eyes back to his own terminal, concealing a smirk behind his wrist. Connor, seemingly unperturbed by his actions, continues typing, and Hank spares a glance back at Nines, who looks rather satisfied with himself. He adds the short sequence to his list of good things for the day, and then begins work officially.

\---

Hank sits down on the couch heavily as Connor finishes up in the bathroom. Nines, seated in the recliner, is giving Hank a curious cock of the eyebrow, but the human is too tired to respond in any way. Connor stalks out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later, and Hank can tell he’s just as worn out, his footsteps more plodding than usual as he approaches the couch and sits in his usual spot. He’s holding his freshly bandaged shoulder, the space still blooming brightly with Thirium even after the treatment.

“Are you sure you don’t want—“

“Levels aren’t anywhere close to critical as of right now, and eventually the bandage will staunch the bleeding,” Connor returns before Hank can even finish, and the lieutenant nods. “I merely wish to rest for right now. Stasis will calm my nerves and aid the healing process.”

“I hear that,” Hank mutters. It had, admittedly, been a long day. It was a collar they were both proud of— some dopehead stalking around the drug trafficking circles they’d busted in the past, always just far enough from the scene to avoid capture. Today had finally been the day, but a few casualties had been sustained; the guy had almost shot Connor’s arm clean off, for one, but he’d also clocked Hank right in the forehead, and though it wasn’t bleeding anymore, it still hurt like a bitch.

“I will be here if you require anything,” Nines states in his soft, even voice— the static effect had lessened with use, but prolonged lack of verbal communication tended to bring it back. Hank nods in his direction kindly, when he notices that Connor has already gone into stasis, slumped over the back of the couch with his arm still clutching his shoulder. Hank smirks, and sits back, willing himself to fall asleep, too. It comes easy enough, what with a long, stressful day, even with Nines watching like a hawk.

\---

“Do you dance, Lieutenant?” Hank had told him to leave his old record player alone at least twice now, but Connor was over there with another vinyl in his hands, staring intently at whatever the cover image was. Hank gives a drawn out sigh, setting his beer down on the coffee table and sitting back against the couch.

“No,” he states. He hesitates for a moment. “I used to.” Connor looks up in a way that tells Hank that was the wrong answer.

“Do you remember any of it?” he asks, quickly.

“Why?” Hank asks, suddenly, cocking a brow. “Need dancin’ for something, Connor?” The android flushes, and he turns back to the records in front of him with a hard expression.

“I know it is a leisure activity often employed by couples,” he explains, shortly, and then gives a small wave of his hand, leaving Hank satisfied again at how many of his quirks Connor had picked up since their time together. “I suppose... I wished to, um, take Markus out. For dancing.”

Hank wills himself not to laugh, if only to spare Connor’s feelings. It isn’t malicious in any way, of course; Hank’s always been charmed by his lack of apt social skills, probably because he knows him so well. Instead, he settles for an easy smile, and shrugs.

“Well, I do remember some stuff. But, I’m old, and my back hurts from—“

“Lieutenant, why didn’t you inform me so we—“

“— _So,_ I’m sure Nines would be happy to step in, and I can coach you,” Hank orders, gesturing to the younger model sitting in the recliner. Nines’ LED spins in thought for a moment, and he locks eyes with Connor, his expression unchanged. A silence hangs until Nines turns back to Hank, opening his mouth to speak almost timidly.

“I do, enjoy... learning,” he nearly whispers. Hank smirks to himself at the knowledge he probably forgets only Connor can hear him on that weird android telepathic frequency. Nines stands, rigidly, after a moment, and stalks over to Connor languidly. Connor puts the record he was messing with back down neatly in the stack and turns to his counterpart, both androids looking lost for a moment.

“Go on,” Hank nudges. “Hands on shoulders, hands on hips. You are talking about slowdancing, right?”

“Yes,” Connor chokes out, clearly confused. They move awkwardly, Connor’s hands shifting to gently cup the taller android’s waist while Nines’ arms lock, outstretched, resting on Connor’s shoulders.

“Nines, loosen up. Get closer. You don’t wanna lock anything out while you’re dancin’, that’s askin’ for trouble,” Hank urges further, crossing his arms. The two heed his directions, sliding the slightest bit closer, and Hank laughs. “Relax, you weirdos. I know you overthink _everything,_ but this is almost too ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t feel... correct,” Connor states, examining their positions. Nines gives it a once over as well, turning back to look at Hank with something hard in his gaze.

“Well, for one, you’re new at this— sorry, you’re _both_ new at this. Two, you don’t have any music goin’, which leads me to three, in that you’re not even dancin’ yet, you’re just standin’ there,” Hank remarks. “C’mon, you gotta sway a little, or somethin’, just step in a little circle if you have to.”

Connor looks troubled for a moment, his LED cycling yellow. “But—“

“Sway! Sway, Connor!” Hank commands, livid now and leaning forward. “Go on! You asked me if I knew anything, and that’s the anything! Go!” The androids stare at him in silence for a beat more before they turn to look at one another, and, very gradually, begin to ‘sway’. It’s rigid, and Hank is amused watching the two of them nearly trip over one another in their attempts to move languidly. He predicted Nines might be a natural at it, what with how even a temperament he exudes, but even he looks highly confused, wiggling his whole torso instead of just the shoulders. Connor apparently finds what’s right to him and sticks to it, his hips moving in time slowly with his feet.

“Is this correct?” Nines asks, stiffly, and Hank scratches his head, still smiling.

“Sure,” he offers.

“I’m ready to stop ‘dancing’,” Connor states, almost too loudly, and the two separate. Finally, Hank laughs.

“Okay, yeah, yeah, that was good for now. You can pick it back up later,” Hank encourages as Connor seats himself to his right. “Maybe next time with some music, too.”

\---

“What’cha up to?” Hank asks, peering over Connor’s shoulder with a mouthful of leftover chicken salad. Connor glances up, and then back to his laptop screen, unperturbed.

“I am searching for living quarters,” he says, and Hank freezes, “to assuage my long stay under your roof.”

“Uh...” Hank starts.

“Do not mistake my resignation as a critique of your home, or your lifestyle,” the android continues, calmly. “But seeing as I am now fully acquainted with both deviancy and routine, I feel as if I should move into my own home, to spare your extra energy and space.”

“Oh, Connor, you don’t have to...” Hank trails off again, fully unsure of where he means to go with the sentence once it’s started.

“There are quite a few android-accommodated apartment buildings within a ten mile radius, and I have the funds to afford a complex on my own,” he explains. “I can even pay interest on the many months I spent here untaxed, if you require compensation for—“

“Connor,” Hank interrupts, straightening and then staring at his feet bashfully. “Um. You don’t... have to move out, if you don’t want to.” Connor’s LED clicks yellow, briefly, but he says nothing. “Like, I promise the company doesn’t bother me, and your... _lifestyle adjustments,_ have been good for me. But if you feel like it’s something you need to feel... I don’t know, better? I won’t stop you,” he affirms.

“Oh.” Connor cocks his head, LED continuing its pattern of yellow. “Well... in that case, I may stay a... _bit_ longer,” he confesses. “I do enjoy the thought of living independently, but I won’t conceal that it is, in the same vein, daunting.”

“Yeah,” Hank sighs. “I know what you mean.”

“I hope you know, even if I were to move out, our correspondence would not lessen by a significant degree,” Connor says, and the rigidity of the statement brings a smile to Hank’s lips.

“Yeah, I know, bud,” he says, knocking him in the shoulder, and then leaves the android at the kitchen table alone to throw the now-empty takeout box in the trash. “Besides, no matter what we’re still partners, yeah?”

“Right,” Connor attests, enthusiastically.

“Am I allowed to ask what ‘brought this on’?” Hank asks, sarcastically, tossing the fork in the sink and then sitting down at the table. The joke is seemingly lost on Connor, and he looks up, shutting the laptop gently.

“Nines expressed interest in making changes to his living situation,” he explains. “Again, not out of malice, but he believes staying part time with Detective Reed and part time with—“

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Hank interrupts, bewildered. “Did you say he’s staying part time with _Gavin?_ ”

“Yes,” Connor says. “Have you failed to notice his absences from the house as of recent?”

“No...” Hank notes, piecing it together slowly. “But he didn’t say anything about that.”

“He likely didn’t say it aloud,” Connor remarks, a little forlorn. “But anyway, last we spoke to Markus, the Manfred residence was in search of a gardener. I suggested Nines for the position, and Markus offered up a spare bedroom as compensation.”

“Huh,” Hank says, lowly.

“Nines seemed interested in the proposal, which made me curious about my own living situation,” Connor concludes. “But it would be a lie to say the thought of being alone doesn’t make me... afraid.”

“That’s okay,” Hank says, quickly. “I mean, like, if you ever need anything... living space-wise, I don’t really use the garage for its intended purpose.”

“What do you use it for?” Connor asks, and Hank blinks.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I’d have to dump a bunch of storage garbage, but that’s just what it is— storage garbage,” Hank explains, scratching the back of his neck. “We could get you your own bed, maybe a rug or two, some posters, a desk, anything you need. Your own space. Erm— with the washing machine, that is. Y’know, just ‘til you feel like you’re ready to go on your own.” Connor thinks about this for a long moment, his eyes wide and his LED clicking yellow rapidly.

“Um. Yes,” he says, at length. “It is very touching that you are willing to dispose of your ‘storage garbage’ for my sake,” he adds, and Hank laughs.

“Okay, but I’m serious. You can’t love the couch _that_ much,” Hank chides, and Connor thinks.

“I suppose... it can be an on-the-side project in the near future,” he settles, and Hank smiles. “I do think I would enjoy a space of my own.”

“Good. Maybe we can take a look at the garage this weekend,” Hank says, and then stands. “But, and I don’t know about you, I’m ready for bed.”

“Okay,” Connor says, scooting his chair from the table. “Good night, Lieutenant. Sleep well.”

“Thanks,” Hank says as he starts into the bathroom for his night time routine. He stops suddenly, however, and looks back down the hall just as Connor is entering the living room. “Wait, hey, Con?” The android pauses, turning to look at Hank quickly.

“Hmm?” 

“Y’know, um...” Hank scratches his chin, looking at the floor. “Don’t be afraid to talk to me about that kinda stuff, or ask for things, if you ever need something. Got it?” Connor stares for a moment, and slowly nods.

“Got it.”

“Good night, Connor,” Hank says, softer.

“Good night, Lieutenant,” Connor breathes, content, and then seats himself on the couch for the night.

\---

Hank was used to things that were cozy, and small. Little ranch houses, or tiny apartments; small spaces for a man who thought of himself as living simply. It wasn’t even necessarily a money thing, he just preferred it that way. But the Manfred residence was neither cozy, or small, or anything at all like a little ranch house. He supposed he should’ve seen it coming, what with Carl being a fairly famous painter; they likely had money to spare, and he hadn’t even blinked when Connor told him they were looking to hire a gardener. It made sense, however, the longer he thought about it.

In any case, Hank was fully out of his element in the house— no, _mansion’s_ — spacious patio area. It was honestly more of a workshop, artistically, of course, but it couldn’t hide the lavish greens that spread beyond the big windows. He found himself getting caught up in it frequently, brought back to their current task only by the quiet conversation of the androids in the room.

Hank, used to simple things, is also not a very artistic soul; he appreciated art, but his calloused hands weren’t necessarily made to create it. He was feeling that currently, staring at his nearly empty canvas with disdain. He wishes absently Connor had sat a little closer, but he was glad he was getting to spend time with his boyfriend, too.

Staring at the two working together in one space, Hank stills, and looks back at his own painting. There were currently just a few streaks of yellow. He had no idea what he was doing, and he supposed he was going to just sit around and wait for someone to direct him.

_Markus insisted,_ Carl had explained, _and painting’s good for the mind._ Nines had taken that to heart— Hank wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be yet, but his use of the brushes and paints was almost masterful. He felt isolated, and after a moment, the android seemed to notice.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant Anderson?” Nines asks, almost in a whisper. Hank’s eyes snap back to his own canvas.

“I’m fine,” he huffs, and stares, as if willing a painting to appear in front of him. “Just... don’t know what the fuck I’m...”

“Stuck, Anderson?” Carl calls, wheeling over, and Hank heaves a sigh.

“ _Yes._ I’m no good at this whole... art thing,” he exclaims. “You want twenty pages of boring-ass paperwork, I’m your man. But this...”

“They’re nice yellow splotches,” Carl remarks, looking over his shoulder.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be paintin’,” Hank laments, throwing his hands up, and Carl tuts.

“ _Anything._ Remember? Whatever you feel.”

“That is wicked unhelpful,” Hank notes.

“Use that tone of yours to give it some color,” Carl chuckles, and wheels away to check on the others. Hank stares at his nearly blank canvas again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He spares a glance back over at Nines’, glimpsing a whole scene coming into place, and, growing self-conscious, quickly turns back to his own painting, and simply paints. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, other than to wash off the brush as frequently as he needs to, and just makes _something._

It turns out alright in the end, when everybody’s finished; it’s a mess of warm colors with a simple streak of blue in the mix. He’s not really sure what it’s supposed to be, but the Manfreds inform him that that’s alright. Hank thinks maybe it looks a little bit like salsa.

“Thanks again, for havin’ us, Carl,” he speaks, lowly, the wrapped painting under his arm cautiously. The host smiles warmly.

“It was nice. We should do it more often,” he states.

“Yeah,” Hank says, a little sheepish, and then glances off in the direction of his android, smiling softly into his boyfriend’s embrace. “It’s probably as good for me to get out as it is for them.” Carl chuckles.

“God, me too. Can’t remember the last time we had company over I actually _wanted._ We ought’a do dinner sometime,” he offers, and Hank nods.

“Sure. We’ll keep in contact... and I’m sure Connor’ll be around enough,” he adds as the androids separate gradually, and Connor makes his way over to where Hank and Nines are standing.

“Be seein’ you all,” Carl says, warmly, as the Andersons exit.

“Bye, Markus,” Connor calls, walking backwards out the door, and Hank catches a smile as the goodbye is returned.

\---

“Lieutenant,” Connor calls, standing in the doorway. “It is currently 7:30 am. You have said ‘snooze’ th—“

“Snooze!” Hank all but shouts, pulling the covers over his head, and he sinks deeper into the bed when he hears footsteps approach.

“Lieutenant, are you feeling alright?” Connor asks. “Your body temperature is elevated, and don’t think I haven’t heard your coughing.” Hank groans, attempting to sit up.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he says. “I just don’t wanna get up yet.”

“Well,” Connor settles, his voice unperturbed and even, “you have approximately three minutes to get ready if we are to make it to work early, and thirteen to arrive on time.”

“Whatever, go,” Hank shoos him, and coughs into his fist. “I’ll be out in a little bit.” Connor seems unconvinced for a moment, but he leaves Hank alone again and shuts the door behind him, and Hank visibly sags in place. For all of the poking fun he had done at Connor the last time he had a virus for claiming he was fine, Hank felt like a hypocrite. He was ready to use those words— _I’m fine_ — from the moment Connor first opened his door this morning.

Sluggishly, Hank slowly and unsurely drags himself from the bed, making his way across the hall into the bathroom and into the shower. He takes longer than usual, and it is, of course, interrupted by a knock and an urgent “We’re going to be late,” from Connor.

He grins and bears it when they finally leave the house, ignoring both the splitting headache and Connor staring at him quizzically as they get into the car. He turns the music up and doesn’t even realize he’s scowling when he notices Connor cock his head out of the corner of his eyes.

“Lieutenant—“ he starts, gently.

“Connor, could you stop starin’? It’s—“ He tries to be firm, but he’s interrupted by a cough. “It’s rude.”

“I think you may be ill,” Connor states, staring ahead.

“I’m fine.”

“I can inform Captain Fowler if you’d like to stay home to r—“

“I’m _fine,_ Connor, jeez, how many times do I gotta say that?” Hank snaps, and Connor sits rigidly in the seat.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he mumbles, and they drive in silence the rest of the way. Hank’s aware of how blinding the fluorescent lights at the precinct are when they finally arrive and go inside, and he makes a mental note to dig into the stock of ibuprofen he keeps in his desk.

Connor doesn’t push anything else on him for the first hour or so, but, even medicated, Hank lags a little, desiring a nice nap on his desk at present. He’s barely focusing on whatever he’s reading on his terminal, slumped forward in his seat, and Connor notices.

“You should go home,” the android states, firmly. “Your body temperature has risen to 100.6 degrees Fahrenheit since this morning, Lieutenant, and your declining health is concerning me.”

“Connor, I swear to God if you make one more remark about how I’m sick, I’m gonna clock you,” Hank growls, mostly out of exhaustion, and Connor recoils slightly, remaining silent afterwards. “Sometimes we do shit we don’t wanna do, like go to work when we feel bad, or investigate a case in the rain.”

“I like the rain,” Connor says, very softly.

“Just do your fuckin’ work. I’ll tell you if I wanna go home,” Hank finishes, sharply, and turns back to his terminal to commence work for the day.

He’s much too stubborn to quit before they’re allowed to leave, and so they exit graciously around 5. Even so, Connor drives home, stiff and silent. Hank welcomes the silence of the car, leaning against the window gently to cool himself off. Nobody makes any mention of the day; Hank has a feeling Connor informed Nines of the situation already.

At home, they go about their business for the evening; Hank climbs into his pajamas almost instantly, and hunkers down on the couch to pretend he’s still mostly coherent ‘til bed time. The androids settle in gradually, Connor finding a home on the ground with Sumo while his eyes watch the basketball game on curiously, and Nines seating himself in his usual place on the recliner. Hank considers standing up to get a Benadryl or something, but his vision swims at the mere thought of it; the aspirin he’d taken periodically seemed to be staving off his obvious fever for now, so, all things considered, he didn’t need it that badly. Slowly, unbeknownst to him, Hank begins to drift off until he’s soundly asleep against the arm of the couch.

\---

He awakes a couple of hours later; the androids are nowhere in sight, the TV is turned off, and he has a massive crick in his neck that makes him groan as he rises from his sleeping position.

“Connor?” he calls hoarsely, into the darkness of the house, and massages his throat. Somehow, he manages to feel more heavy and more tired as he stands in place, taking plodding steps toward the front door. When he opens it, it’s snowing out, heavily, and he draws in on himself slightly. “Connor?” he tries again, a little louder. He’s not sure why he’s checking out front, but he pursues it further, and walks until he’s to his car, climbing into the vehicle slowly.

Things seem to move sluggishly as he drives. He feels better. He’s warm. He’s heading home. He glances in the rearview mirror, where his son is sat in the back, and he smiles. It’s snowing heavily. He puts on the brakes.

The lieutenant jerks out of his sleep violently, breathing heavily against the side of the couch.

“Lieutenant?” comes Connor’s voice, concerned, from the kitchen, and Hank relaxes a little bit more. It was a dream. A shitty, shitty fever dream. “Lieutenant,” Connor calls again, stalking closer, and Hank rolls over onto his back just as the android squats to eye level. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Nightmare,” he says, too physically exhausted to fight it any longer. It’s clear Connor wants to say something, his LED clicking yellow softly in the low light, but Hank speaks for him. “I should probably get into _bed_ bed,” he offers. “I’ll level with you. I’m sick.”

“Mm,” Connor hums, unaffected, and stands. Hank sits up slowly, rubbing his head soundly.

“Would you get me a Benadryl?” he asks, softly. “Fr-from the medicine cabinet.”

“Okay,” Connor says, and follows his direction, moving into the kitchen silently. Hank stares at the quiet movement on the TV screen for a moment before clicking it off, reducing the room to the darkness of the light coming from the bathroom down the hall. Connor returns a moment later, pill and glass of water in hand. Hank mumbles a thank you and downs it, drinking the entire glass for good measure.

“Connor,” Hank says eventually, his voice hoarse, as the android sits down next to him on the couch. “I’m sorry for snappin’ at you a bunch today.”

“You mean— yesterday?” Connor asks, inquisitive and quiet, and Hank blanks; he must’ve slept through the night.

“Whatever, just... I’m sorry. It was uncalled for, sick or not, and I hope you know I’m not upset with you,” he states softly, his fingers drumming the empty glass in his hands gently.

“I know,” Connor says, at length.

“Feelin’ bad just makes me... I don’t know... grumpy. I shouldn’t’ve shut you up or whatever,” he continues, and then sighs out, giving a weak cough against his shoulder. “Thanks for takin’ care of me all the same.” Connor stares at him, eyes bright, for a moment, his elbow positioned on the back of the couch, before he stands suddenly.

“How about we get you into bed?” he asks, and Hank smiles lightly at his lack of response.

“Good idea,” he agrees, and stands alongside the android slowly. Connor helps him to his room gradually, watching his step for him in the dark. Hank goes along with the gentle coaxing willingly; Connor’s abnormally heated hands still felt cold to the overheated human, and Hank accepted the contact gratefully.

After being laid down to sleep officially, Hank focuses all of his energy into staying awake to give a final good night to Connor. He’s sitting on the edge of Hank’s bed quietly, smoothing out the bunched-up covers around him methodically.

“Do not fight me,” he breathes out, suddenly. “I’m going to call you out sick tomorrow, and take an automated taxi to work. If you feel well enough to come in, do; otherwise, stay home and rest, lest you tax your body anymore after today.” Hank gives a wheezy chuckle, laying his head back against the pillow.

“Okay, thanks, Connor,” he says. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Lieutenant,” Connor returns, softly, and as soon as he’s stood and out the door, Hank is out like a light. No nightmares plague him this time, however, and he sleeps comfortably until 11 AM.

\---

Markus stops by more often what with he and Connor dating, and although it sets the need to immediately leave their vicinity for some fake semblance of privacy unto Hank, he can’t help but feel _happy_ about it. It was apparently a form of closure he didn’t even realize he needed, to see Connor getting along with someone and merely _living_ his own life. The shift of mood was blatant— not that Connor had bad days all that often anymore, but Markus’ presence was quick to break a nonverbal spell or a stormy, irritable day. Hank welcomed it, how good they seemed to be for one another.

Hank swore honestly that Connor had smiled more, and more genuinely, in the past month than he had in their entirety of being partners thus far; he was more independent, and confident in those independent decisions, and although it sometimes led to irrelevant tension between he and Hank, Hank thought it was fairly astounding, just how far he had come. For all it was, he felt proud about it, even though it seemed silly to feel that way about an adult android he’d known less than a year. And proud he was all the same.

Markus came over to help with the work on the garage fairly regularly, too— they set aside a couple hours every weekend to examine boxes and useless crap Hank had lying around that he’d no doubt forgotten about, and likely didn’t care for anymore. Even Nines seemed to enjoy the additional company in his own, mute way. The Anderson house, despite its increase in life in the past year, had truly grown into a sunny place to be as of recent, and Hank couldn’t be happier.

Returning up the porch from a late night walk with Sumo, Hank reaches down to pat the dog squarely between the ears and then reaches for his keys, finding the house key and unlocking the door. He’d assumed Markus would’ve left some time ago, but instead he sees he’s still seated calmly on the couch. They meet eyes when Markus turns, but just as Hank’s about to ask for context Markus raises a singular finger to denote a silent _shh_.

Hank shuts the door quietly and then stalks over, peering over the shoulder of the android only to see Connor, in stasis, in his boyfriend’s lap. His feet hang over the arm of the couch and Hank is careful not to knock into them as he seats himself in the recliner, unleashing Sumo to let him ravage Markus’ knees with affection. He smiles softly at the sight; one hand of Markus’ cups Connor’s dark locks while the other rests calmly and intimately on his chest. It’s sweet, but it’s also a little awkward, so Hank decides to turn in early for the night to give their space a little more privacy.

In the morning, Hank’s phone pings him awake at exactly 7, surprising him if only for the break in routine; Connor had developed quite an interest in becoming his alarm, but he was missing from the usual picture this morning, Hank’s door closed soundly. The text is, of course, from Connor— a simple wake up call. Hank rolls his eyes and gets started on his morning routine anyway. 

The lieutenant showers and gets dressed in his usual twenty minute lull, but it’s as he’s going into the kitchen to receive breakfast that he sees Connor, sitting rigidly on the couch. Leaning into his left side is Markus, now in stasis of his own, and Connor offers Hank a soft smile as he passes by the two. His LED clicks yellow gently for a moment, and Hank’s phone pings with another message— _Settings on the coffee machine and toaster are already set to preference. I hope you remember how to work them on your own. :)_ Hank scoffs in amusement, and turns to throw Connor a look, but the android’s only reply is a cheeky smile and the same, silencing index finger Markus had offered him last night. Rolling his eyes, Hank sets his breakfast into motion and leans against the counter, mentally preparing for another good day.

\---

He’s not sure when he fell asleep, but Hank wakes up to the sound of... contact. It’s the distinctive noise of an android’s chassis being hit through the synthetic skin, and he assumes the worst, jerking out of bed in a concerned hurry.

Sticking his head into the hallway, however, all Hank spies are the two RKs, stanced across from one another behind the couch. They move in a methodical rhythm, throwing punches and kicks with ease. Hank knows what sparring is, of course, but his sleep-addled brain still insists on being confused.

“What’s goin’ on out here?” he calls, and the two do not pause.

“We’re sparring,” Connor responds, his focus bleeding into his rigid tone, “since you gave up on that venture with me.”

“Hey, I don’t mind sparring,” Hank says, accusatory, “but you almost broke my hand.”

“Untrue. Your punch lacked proper form, and thus was susceptible to fracturing.” A hit finally connects, Connor’s fist to Nines’ stomach, and they pause, reset in place, and resume. Hank rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. What time is it?” he asks.

“3:20 AM,” Connor responds, once more refusing to miss a beat. Nines gets a hit in this time; pause, reset, resume. Hank mumbles an indistinct _fine, then, be rude_ to himself, and the androids don’t respond even if they had heard it. He stretches, and moves out into the hallway, slipping past Connor on his right into the kitchen where he gives Sumo a gentle tap of acknowledgement in return for his lazy tail wag. He goes about his business of getting a glass of water slowly, listening into the pattern of gentle steps and hits from behind him in interest.

“Tell me why you felt the need to spar right now?” Hank asks, nonchalantly, turning back to watch them. Nines’ eyes flick to him for a split second.

“Nightmare,” Connor returns, still gravely focused, and the word makes Hank freeze.

“Oh, I’m... you know you could’ve woke me up,” Hank offers, softly.

“I know.”

“Um... do you wanna... talk about it, or—“

“No, Lieutenant,” Connor replies, quickly. His tone softens slightly when he adds, “I appreciate the sentiment, but this is fine for now.” Hank gives a single nod in understanding, and turns back to the counter. Sumo is standing now, and he noses him in the leg gently. Hank is about to lead him out the back door in the garage when a sickening _crack_ fills the air, and Hank looks up just in time to see Connor stumble backwards.

“Connor?” he calls, trying not to let his tone sound as worried as he felt.

“I’m sorry,” Nines vocalizes in a whisper, reaching up just as Connor does. The older android examines the Thirium on his hand for a split second, and then readjusts himself.

“No trouble. Continue,” he says, evenly, and Nines pauses for a moment before dropping into his own fighting stance once more. Hank is too stunned by the short sequence to intervene right away, but when he sees the generous amount of blue blood hitting the floor at Connor’s feet, he almost throws himself forward.

“Hey hey hey, wait a minute!” he barks, and the androids pause in place, staring at him. Two perfect and unending streams of Thirium drip from Connor’s nose, his synthetic skin forming a deep blue bruise alarmingly quickly. “Jesus, Connor, your nose is bleeding like hell!”

“I am sorry,” Nines says again, the comment seemingly ignored as Connor shakes his head.

“It barely hurts. I want to continue sparring.” Hank gives a quick groan as Connor turns away from him again, and he stamps into the bathroom to find gauze. He returns a moment later to see that they’re moving in time again, and he walks faster to step in between them.

“Okay, stop. I’m calling this quits for now.” It’s Connor’s turn to groan as Hank hands him the gauze.

“But—“

“ _No._ That’s a broken nose, son, and a lot of blood you’re losing.” Connor scowls, pressing the gauze to his nose anyway.

“I’ve lost less than 9% of my overall Thirium volume. Nosebleeds aren’t very serious,” he defends, snippy. Hank stares at him for a long time as Nines retreats to the fridge to grab a bottle of Thirium anyway.

“The fuck’s the matter with you?” Hank asks, all of the sudden. “You never get short with me. What’s wrong?”

“ _Nothing,_ ” Connor presses, and Hank can’t believe he’s being given the _Leave Me Alone, Dad_ tone by his adult android.

“Oh yeah?” he demands.

“ _Yes,_ Lieutenant,” Connor insists, gritting his teeth. “I’m fine! I just... want to...”

“Yeah, yeah, you wanna spar as a form of venting, ‘cause you think that’s gonna _magically_ make your troubling thoughts go away,” Hank accuses, his voice raising. Connor doesn’t say anything. “You think as long as you can hurt _physically_ in some way, all that emotional turmoil bullshit goes away, right? That you won’t have to dwell on it anymore because, oh, it’s fine, it’s not in the forefront of my mind so surely it doesn’t matter and can’t hurt me any longer. Am I right?” Connor remains silent still, and Hank sighs. “Look, bud, I know talking to me about _stuff_ is a massive pain in the ass, or whatever,” he begins again, speaking softer, and taking the blue blood from Nines with a nodded thank you, “but I can help you with this. I get nightmares all the time, and... I’ve been the same way, y’know?”

“...It’s different,” Connor says, after a long pause, still staring at his feet.

“Maybe,” Hank returns, shrugging. “But sometimes all you need is the confirmation of related experiences.” Connor doesn’t respond and Hank thinks for a moment. “Was it about that lady? Uh... Amanda?” A pause. Connor nods. “Talking about it might ease that distress you’re feeling, Connor,” he offers, and the android wiggles in place restlessly for a moment, swallowing. Hank gives him the time he needs; despite his demeanor, he can tell he’s relaxing in the slightest, and he doesn’t want to push Connor along too fast.

“I was back in my mind palace,” he starts, quietly. “It was cold again, and she was there, and I couldn’t...” He stops for a moment, his face scrunching up in frustration. His free hand moves to cup his nose afterwards, concealing a small _ow_ before he continues. “It just felt so real. And... the terminal I used to escape her clutches many times before was refusing to work, so I thought surely it meant... it-it meant that...” He stops again, and takes an unnecessary breath, if only to gain his bearings. Hank doesn’t push the incomplete thought. “I-It was terrifying.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank says, candidly, reaching a hand out to rest on the android’s shoulder gently. “I know what you mean. They’re not a very pleasant experience.”

“No,” Connor sighs, shakily, and then looks back up at Hank. “I’m sorry for snapping.”

“It’s alright,” Hank chuckles. “Payback, right?” Connor cocks his head.

“I... hardly think something like that is worthy of requiring ‘payback,’ but—“ Hank interrupts him by pulling him into a tight hug, which the android eases into slowly. They separate just as quickly, after a comfortable squeeze, and Hank cracks a little smile that Connor returns awkwardly.

“I’ll let you get back to it. _Stasis,_ I mean. No more sparring tonight,” Hank directs. “And wake me up if you have another nightmare.”

“Got it.”

“Take this Thirium whenever your nose stops gushing and, uh...” Hank pauses as he hands the bottle to Connor, his eyes on a very fidgety Nines. “Go cool your brother down. I think he’s experiencing _guilt_ for the first time.”

“Brother?” Connor asks suddenly, looking from Nines to Hank, and Hank flushes, suddenly aware of both sets of eyes on him.

“Uh... yeah, like... y’know,” he tries, unsure of how to explain. “That _is_ the right descriptor, right?” Connor thinks for a moment, his still-yellow LED cycling rapidly.

“I... suppose,” he says, and turns back to look at Nines. “Brother,” he parrots again, and then moves around to sit on the couch next to him, where he takes his hands to steady him as they (presumably) begin their weird telepathy thing again. Hank smiles fondly, and then becomes aware of his poor dog again, standing at his side expectantly.

“Alright, Sumo, let’s go out,” he says, and begins down the hallway, and Sumo woofs gently, contented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 11/21
> 
> hey guys sorry for the delay on today’s chapter! things have been busy and i’m trying to perfect these last few chapters so hopefully ill have 9 out by tomorrow, but the wait on 10 and 11 may be especially long! ill keep you updated on those time frames after i get 9 posted but until then, thank you for your patience and sorry for the spur of the moment mini-hiatus!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry terribly for the wait! the timeline of the last 2 chapters will be discussed in the ending note  
> few things about this chapter: firstly, Sorry. secondly, another fun and long one to write!  
> warnings for some semi-graphic descriptions of gore (hand gore, to be specific) this chapter  
> i say Sorry, again, but also enjoy!

“You sure you’re up for this?”

“Yes.”

“And you really wanna do it?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“So you’re _positive_ —“

“ _Lieutenant,_ ” Connor chides in an impatient warning, and Hank waves him off.

“Okay, fine. We can go to a bar,” he settles, and Connor seems more excited than he should be. Word had circulated about some new line of artificial Thirium— _artificial_ Thirium, which they both thought was funny, considering Thirium 310 was a man-made component in the first place— developed by some kid doing his chemistry homework, that supposedly mimicked alcohol when consumed by androids. The liquid was light enough to be filtered through the existing supply without tainting it or increasing the Thirium volume by a significant margin, and Connor was _very_ insistent about these facts, overtly eager. Hank felt hesitant about it, truthfully— the one time he’d gotten Connor to try whiskey, things went significantly badly, but he seemed so excited now, so _ready_ to be more human. He could level with him on it for that alone, even with the inflated price the ‘drink’ was running at in the town’s local bars.

“So how’d you hear about this again?” Hank asks while they’re in the car. Connor turns to look at him, his fingers wiggling slightly in his lap. Hank smiles lightly at the sight in his periphery.

“Ignoring the fact that many news programs are running stories and articles,” Connor says, almost smug, “Markus pointed it out the last time we went on a date.”

“Oh?” Hank says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. We didn’t have any at the time, but I did do the research following the occurrence,” he continues.

“Why not?”

“Why what?”

“Why not, um...” Hank gives a hand wiggle, looking for the words. “Why didn’t you have any to drink then?” Connor ponders the question for a moment.

“Well, I did consider it, as Markus was the one to suggest it, but...” He taps his chin. “I figured you would want to be a proprietor in my first time getting ‘drunk’,” he states, and Hank’s face lights up.

“ _Well,_ it’s not something I would’ve stopped you from doing, but I certainly would enjoy being your first-time drinkin’ buddy,” Hank says, cheerily. Connor smiles in turn.

“I figured you might say that.”

“Are you nervous about it at all?” Hank asks, before he can stop himself. “New experiences and what-not.”

“Lieutenant, with all due respect, I hardly think a ‘new experience’ like this is worth getting worked up over, never mind nervous,” Connor returns, seriously. “At most, I will express excitement, or maybe curiosity.”

“Well, okay, that works out, ‘cause you don’t drink to get drunk, you drink to have a good time,” Hank says, and then mutters, “Wish I would’a heeded that more closely.”

“You’ve gotten better,” Connor notes, quietly, and Hank gives a candid nod. They drive the rest of the way in silence, which is fine with Hank, because it gives him time to reflect on the phrase ‘designated driver’, and whether or not he was going to fill that position tonight. He can’t see himself getting drunk— at least not at a bar. Home was a different story, of course, depending on how the night was going to go. Still, he almost feels resentful for not calling a cab.

They pull into a space along the street and park, and Connor’s out of the car before Hank can even start another conversation. He follows the eager android stumblingly, nearly forgetting to lock the car in their haste.

“Hey, Connor!” he calls. “Slow down!”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Connor adjusts the cuffs of his shirt absently as he pauses for the human; Hank thinks he looks proper in a sweater vest. 

They enter quietly, and Hank sucks the atmosphere in through his nose; this was a place— this bar, specifically— that he hadn’t been to in a while, and even smelling the familiar burn of cheap food and old alcohol was enough to take him back to the times he had been. In fact, he notes, he hadn’t visited a bar regularly in months. He participated in the occasional drop by or end of the week celebration of some sort, sure, but never a right-after-work, all night long ordeal, like he sometimes took advantage of in the past. The thought is almost a little jarring.

“We haven’t been to a bar in a while,” Connor states, as if somehow reading the lieutenant’s mind, and Hank nods.

“Mm, well. Like you said, I got better. Come on. Bar’s waitin’.” It wasn’t particularly busy this evening; a fair amount of patrons, nothing to scoff at, but not overwhelmingly full. Hank thanks the stars for that, as he’s not sure what Connor would do with a racket while under the influence. They order, Hank, a simple beer, and Connor, his weird android cocktail, and sit. Connor’s examining the interior of the dive slowly while they wait for the bartender to tend, his LED taking everything in with a bright yellow click. Hank thinks it’s nice to watch, the android’s eyes wide with curiosity at humans being humans.

“Here you go, Anderson,” the bartender offers, dropping both beverages in front of them, and Hank grimaces at the remembered name, passing over a tip. Beer completely disregarded, they both take a hard look at the glass sitting in front of Connor. Hank’s been around Thirium long enough now to distinguish how different it looks; it’s more of an electric color, clearly thinner in consistency, and if his eyes were any better he’d say it almost looks _carbonated_. Seeing the drink for himself, however, he’s suddenly not so sure this is a good idea.

“You sure about this, Con?” Hank asks, lightly. “I mean, we really don’t know what’s in this stuff...”

“No,” Connor says, his eyes focused on it intently. “But my scanners read all of its components as safe for consumption.”

“Okay, but—“

“Down the hatch,” Connor says, and Hank’s too focused on Connor’s use of a human phrase to grasp the fact that he’s drained his glass in one go. Silence follows, and it finally occurs to Hank.

“You... Connor...” He sighs, unsure of where to take his words. “You don’t have to drink it all at once... in fact, that’s probably _worse_.”

“I wish you would’ve informed me about that upfront,” Connor remarks, his face twisting with what Hank assumes is the strong taste, “though I don’t notice any change in my systems thus far. My analysis programs seem very interested with it.”

“Well, of course you don’t feel anything yet, it’s gotta, like, mix in with your blood or whatever,” Hank tries. “I don’t know. Android alcohol is different.”

“It’s true, we have no stomach lining for the ethanol to seep into, thus contaminating the blood and dulling the senses,” Connor says, almost a little too cheerfully.

“Spare me the details, Connor, _I_ still got a glass to drink,” Hank snarks back, and takes a knowing sip at his beer. “How did it taste, at least?”

“Not... unpleasant,” Connor returns, “though I don’t usually dwell on the taste of pure Thirium. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was more metallic than usual, or...” He trails off. Hank stares at him, his eyes focused somewhere on the countertop.

“Or?” Hank asks. He sees it on his face— it’s subtle, the nominal change in demeanor, but it’s there, and Hank smirks. Connor finally looks at him again, cocking his head.

“Or what?”

“That’s what I’m asking,” Hank says, folding his hands.

“Did... was I saying something?” Connor questions, almost to the air.

“Uh huh.”

“The ‘artificial’ Thirium, is like...” He pauses, glancing down at himself. “The code of the Thirium itself seems to be rewritten somehow. Its circulation is sending new information and instructions my scanners refuse to obstruct.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Hank asks, honestly.

“...No,” Connor says, after a moment. “It feels a little bit like when I’m low on Thirium, minus the simulated exhaustion. Some of my processes don’t seem to be working at full capacity, it’s giving me a sort of... headrush. Um. Discombobulating, and yet... pleasurable.” He pauses. “Can I have another?” Hank laughs at the question, and signals the bartender over again.

The night continues as normally as it can; Hank is so busy paying attention to his partner that he’s barely touching his beer, nursing the mug disinterestedly. Connor’s a little brighter, a little more talkative than usual. He’s inclined to squirm with his whole body instead of just his hands, per norm, and doesn’t seem off-put by the need to do so. He’s still highly coherent three drinks in, and Hank has to wonder if ‘alcohol’ tolerance comes with the android, or the drink.

Hank finally finishes his singular beer after Connor’s downed a whopping five drinks of his own, and it seems to be affecting him more clearly now, his pupils dilated and his smile plastered on, albeit sloppily. He talks slower— but keeps talking, Hank notes— seems to stumble over words at times, which is entirely out of character for him, and Hank has to stifle a giggle every so often.

“We should’ve invited Nines,” Connor says, leaning against the counter fully. “He’s over hangin’ with shitty Reed.”

“You’re right, we should’ve,” Hank agrees, keeping his own insistent smile at bay. “I can just send him a video, though, I’m sure he’d be more than fine with that.” Connor gives a long nod, sinking closer to the bar-top of his own accord. Hank swears he hears him hiccup.

“Tha’s probably a good idea,” Connor affirms. “I wish he was here.”

“Why?” Hank can’t help himself.

“I like ‘im,” Connor remarks, and then makes an unfruitful attempt to stand. “Oh, jeez.”

“Where are you goin’?” Hank asks. Connor tilts his head.

“Nowhere? I am... standing.”

“Antsy?” Hank presses.

“ _No,_ ” Connor retorts. “I wanna ’nother drink.” Hank laughs again.

“No, I think you’re good. Our tab’s already forty somethin’, and I only had one beer,” he says, almost realizing it fully for himself. “Ready to go home?”

“ _No_ ,” Connor repeats.

“Well, it’s like 10:30, I gotta get to bed at some point, and you can’t drive,” Hank says, jabbing a finger into the android’s solar-plexus. Connor swats his hand away a little slowly, his reflexes dulled by the artificial Thirium.

“I can always call a taxi,” Connor slurs, and Hank shakes his head.

“You’ve had enough for right now, buddy, trust me,” he starts. “If androids can get hangovers, you’re in for one tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe so, _but_ , I don’t know,” Connor confesses. “Too little research. Prob’bly not, though.”

“Uh huh,” Hank says, unconvinced. “Come on.” He offers a hand as he stands after paying, and Connor finds it difficult to wiggle out of his stool and onto his feet alongside the human. He tries to follow as Hank takes a step, in vain, and he stumbles up against his back almost immediately.

“Oh, shit, Hank,” he breathes, and Hank is almost perturbed by the use of his name for a moment before he remembers that Connor is out of it. “I can’t walk very well.”

“Uh huh,” Hank chuckles, slowing enough to secure an arm around the android. As they continue the walk, Hank notes how heavily Connor is leaned into his side, his feet all but tripping over one another. His diaphragm shifts every now and then with what must be nearly-silent hiccups, and the thought makes Hank want to stop and laugh right there, but he continues to help Connor along until they’re out by the car. He thinks absently of the time he’d woken up to Connor standing over him in the shower, enough gleaned from the situation to know that he’d been dragged there not of his own will. The tables being turned as they are now makes him smile again.

He helps Connor into the passenger’s side (and with his seatbelt) and then stalks around to his own side, getting into the driver’s seat smoothly. He watches the android to the side of him with staunched curiosity, his stims slower and more cautious now. He’s staring intently at his coin before he makes any moves with it, and drops it a few seconds into his routine with a mutter of protest. Hank ceases his staring as Connor’s gaze drifts upward, and they pull out of the space slowly.

“Your LED’s been yellow for a bit, there, bud, you alright?” Hank asks, once they’re safely driving.

“Uh huh,” Connor says, reaching up to tap it, gently. “My systems are making work of processing the, uh, stuff. Sorry, it’s morphin’ my voice modulator in unprecedented ways.”

“How do you get it out of your system again?” he inquires further.

“Well, it’s supposed to circulate before purifying, ‘cause my filter catches its minor discrepancies after a time and aims to fix it,” Connor continues, staring out the window with interest. “If that doesn’t work... purging.”

“Okay, so android hangover is the bad end,” Hank states.

“Bad end,” Connor parrots.

“Yeah, like, it’s possible it won’t just work itself out.” Hank gives a wave of his hand. “I’m pretty sure alcohol is... excreted in a number of different ways, or whatever, but you all don’t have that option.”

“I suppose not,” Connor says, distractedly. “Hey Hank?”

“Yeah?” The android pauses, lazily turning to look back at Hank.

“Thanks f’r taking me out tonight,” he says, with a sunny grin. “It was fun.”

“Yeah,” Hank agrees, with a smile. “It was nice.”

“I like relaxing,” Connor continues. “I don’t like having my sensors all... all cloudy, or whatever, though. Can’t make sense of some things.”

“Of course not,” Hank says.

“It’s disorienting, maybe a li’l scary. I don’t... like it very much anymore,” Connor concedes, swallowing. Hank notices the change in tone, and glances over.

“Hey, you’re okay. I got my eye on you, yeah?” Connor hums in agreement, mumbling something completely indistinct, and the drive goes on like that for some time.

At home, Hank has to practically drag his android inside, Connor’s legs refusing to cooperate with the both of them. Once in the house, he practically collapses on the couch, weakly parroting the remnants of the song that was on the radio.

“You good?” Hank asks, seating himself in the recliner.

“Oh, yeah,” Connor affirms, closing his eyes and shielding them with his wrists. “Tired.”

“Huh,” Hank says. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” Hank scowls.

“No, other than tired.”

“Um. Sort of what I think is dizzy, sort of... hmm...” he trails off, and shrugs, and Hank stifles a smile. “I kinda wanna dance but not really.” He wiggles in place, as if to make his point.

“Well, I can let you go into stasis now, if you want.”

“Hank,” Connor says, lying his arms back down.

“Connor,” Hank returns.

“I’m drunk.” Hank laughs, heartily, as Connor wiggles his hips a little again, smiling with the lieutenant. 

“ _Yes,_ you are, inexplicably,” Hank affirms, standing. “Really though, go ahead and sleep, let your systems sort this out. I don’t want you still drunk at work tomorrow.”

“I won’t be,” Connor says as he spends a large portion of his attention rubbing and squishing Sumo’s face affectionately.

“Good night, then, kid,” Hank says, and moves to leave, skirting around the couch, but Connor’s hand catches him, his grip unwaveringly firm even with his lack of coherence.

“Really, though, Lieutenant. Thank you,” he repeats, and Hank smiles at him fondly.

“Alright, go on, buddy, it’s my bedtime, too.” Connor releases him and then turns over fully on the couch, evidently unconcerned with how he doesn’t fit fully stretched out, or how his face is pressed somewhat uncomfortably into the arm rest. Hank retires to his own room after another moment of amused examination, and he flicks off the light after undressing, climbing into his comfortable sheets welcomingly. He’s focusing on trying to fall asleep, when he hears it— it’s faint, nearly indistinct, but he swears he hears a ‘ _love you_ ’ trail in from the living room. It makes him smile again, and he goes back to attempting to sleep peacefully.

\---

Some of Connor’s friends had come over for the Fourth, and everyone was sat outside on Hank’s tiny little porch as Connor, Markus and Nines prepared what few fireworks they’d gotten their hands on. Hank chatted openly with Carl and Kara and Luther, Alice seated comfortably in Hank’s lap, and Josh watched carefully as North and Simon wrestled playfully in the grass. North’s original plan was to help the group with the fireworks, but few people trusted her with a lighter, including Hank, so for the moment she was confined to ‘yard duty’, participating in pleasantries with the rest of their current company.

“Esteemed guests,” Markus begins, loud enough to silence their mini crowd and pause North and Simon in place. “We don’t have a lot prepared for you tonight, but we’ve got something nonetheless, all due in part to Misters Connor and Nines Anderson—“ there’s a pause here as their faux audience gives a little cheer and weak applause, and the brothers each do a dramatic bow that makes Hank smile even more than them being called Andersons, “—so, without further ado, I suppose we can begin fireworks!” There’s a small cheer again, and Hank shifts forward so Alice can see a little better, moving themselves to the front of the ‘audience’.

The three in charge take turns lighting each little firework prepared— though Connor, while enamored with fire and the sparks emitted by said fireworks, has to disappear inside periodically to get away from the noise, as it seems to be a little too loud for him. Nines, luckily, had already come equipped with their singular pair of noise-cancelling headphones. The fireworks are, of course, what one might call ‘underwhelming’. They, as people of the public, had no access to the big display fireworks, but their little show is cause for applause and cheers anyway, and moreover, Alice seems to enjoy it, insisting she and Hank scoot closer and closer— close enough for Kara to scold her, should a stray spark catch something on fire. Hank’s less concerned; it had rained a lot in the past week, and the grass was likely too wet, even in the heat, to take flame from a little spark. He heeded her mother’s words nonetheless, and refused to move any closer past a certain point.

There’s a brief lull in activity while those in charge of the show gain their bearings, and Hank deposits Alice to her mother just as North begins throwing the poppers she’d just received at people, again. Hank moves inside for a moment to check on his android, staring conspicuously out the window, while Markus tends to his own father. He seats himself in the recliner, motioning for Connor to move away from the window for a moment. The android alights on one arm of the chair lightly, looking down at Hank in question.

“You okay?” Hank asks. Connor nods, honestly.

“I’m sorry if I may be putting a damper on the occasion,” he concedes. “I like the fireworks, even with how bright they are, but some of them are too loud, even from inside.”

“I know, buddy, that’s okay,” Hank says, rubbing up his arm. “Would turning off your... uh.... ears, help? You can do that, right?”

“I can, and I hadn’t considered it,” Connor says, nodding, “but most likely. I had... admittedly, forgotten I could do that,” he adds, and they both share a short laugh.

“Go ahead, then. I don’t want you to miss out on the Fourth of July just ‘cause they make fireworks too loud. I mean, hell, they rattle _me_ sometimes,” Hank says, and just as Connor presses a finger to his LED with a small smile, Markus walks in, and he pauses in place.

“Hey, Con, you alright? Sorry I didn’t warn you about the noise,” he says, and Connor shakes his head, moving from his place next to Hank over to his boyfriend languidly.

“I’m fine. I didn’t want to keep anyone else from having a nice time,” he admits, “though, Hank reminded me I can turn my audio processors off, so I think I may do that for the remaining fireworks.” Hank smiles fondly at his name being used.

“That’s cool,” Markus says, and then raises an eyebrow, speaking softer as he pulls Connor closer toward himself. “ _Hank_ reminded you you could do that?” Connor stares at him a moment, in inquiry.

“Yes?” he says. Hank examines them both carefully, his brows folded in confusion.

“And not... _y’know_ —“ Markus starts, the artificial skin disappearing from their intertwined hands shortly, and Connor’s LED cycles a quick yellow before his eyes go a little wide and his cheeks tint blue gradually.

“Oh, _stop!_ That’s hardly appropriate,” he scolds with a sheepish little smile, pushing against Markus’ weak embrace. Hank sticks his tongue out at them playfully, gleaning the meaning of the interaction begrudgingly.

“Hey, _I’m_ supposed to make those jokes in front of _you two_.” Connor moves so his arms rest lightly on Markus’ shoulders, both androids pressed together and eying the Lieutenant coyly.

“Maybe if you’d get with Captain Fowler, you’d have stake in the conversation, Lieutenant,” Connor says, with a wink, and it’s Hank’s turn to blush, deeply.

“Get outside! Both of you! Go!” he snaps, though it’s playful, and the two leave with bright smiles on. He stares after them for a time, smiling, and stands, slowly. The noise outside dwindles to a hush again, and he jogs in time to see them beginning to light the small, colorful boxes once more, Connor pressed into his boyfriend’s side comfortably. Hank sighs contently as the fireworks go off, sitting down in the grass with several remnants of poppers, and watches the ‘shower of sparks’ with interest.

\---

Hank forgets sometimes, when he walks inside the house and the color green is plastered everywhere. Plants and succulents of all shapes and sizes strewn about delicately, giving the place some life even when its occupants aren’t around. Hank watches Nines work in the morning, sometimes; he has a very specific route he follows when watering, and, Hank notes, neither the pace of this watering nor the time spent doing it fluctuates in any way.

Connor isn’t quite as fond of the flora as he is of animals, but he still takes part in the fun. He carries succulents into the garage with him while they’re working, or admires them while sitting at the kitchen table. He even insisted they all bring a plant to work, and Hank obliged happily. He seems particularly fond of the cacti, as it and its siblings are often skipped over in accordance with their ability to store water. The spines don’t puncture very deeply on androids, and Hank would know, because he watched Connor attempt to maim himself with a small cactus for about 20 minutes.

Courteously, a singular plant was left alone by Nines; a Japanese peace lily, humbly deposited on Hank’s desk. Though he never said it, he knew the gesture was meant to reflect gratefulness, and it certainly gave the Lieutenant something to do when both of his androids were missing from the house. He thinks it’s funny; a police Sergeant in one of his favorite movies from a few decades ago had a peace lily, and it really did seem to relax the space as he so often said. Sometimes he would sit and thumb the leaves to calm down, if only to give himself something to focus on. Nines seems to notice how much it means to Hank, for he spends a large amount of time watching silently. Hank appreciates it more than he lets on.

Moreover, the household is more lively than it usually is; Hank figures, whenever Connor works up the nerve to acquire an animal of his own, it may be complete, but for now, the plants are seemingly enough. 

He’s at his desk admiring his peace lily when he sees the bob of Nines’ head outside the window, trough in hand to spice up the front yard a bit more. Hank knows he doesn’t have very good soil, but Nines seemed adamant about planting those tulips _there_ and he hadn’t had the gall to stop him. He smiles, fondly, and turns back to his computer.

\---

After what feels like a month of work, Connor utters a “Ta-da!” as he leads Hank into the newly adapted garage flicking on the slow-going lights proudly. It does look like a proper room, Hank thinks first; there’s a bed, and a desk, and Connor’s very own dresser, for the first time— he’d kept his clothes tucked in a neatly packed box in a corner of Hank’s room up until then. Nines is seated on the tidily made bed, the sheets a matte maroon, and smoothing out a poster recently put up on the wall for some movie Connor must’ve seen. He also notices how many rugs cover the floor, and though he isn’t surprised, what with Connor’s pure aversion to bare feet on the hard surfaces of Hank’s floors, the sight of mix-and-matched, pieced together like a puzzle foot rugs covering the floor from the step down at the door to the desk and laundry machines is a little amusing. He has very few items placed upon his freshly-installed shelves and bare walls, but Hank thinks they have plenty of time to figure that out. Finally, he smiles.

“It’s good,” he says. 

“Do you like it?” Connor asks, and Hank throws him a funny look.

“Do _you_ like it?” he returns. “This is your room now, Connor, whether or not I like it is irrelevant.” Connor seems to think for a minute, turning back to look at his space. There were still some old boxes of Hank’s tucked into the empty corners, but it was clear this wasn’t really ever going to be used as a garage anymore.

“Yes,” Connor concedes after a moment. “I like it a lot.”

\---

“Hey, um, Connor,” Hank says, walking in from his bedroom to lean on the back of the couch. Connor turns to look up at him, pausing the documentary on the TV in place.

“Lieutenant?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, um...” Hank scratches his nose in thought, wondering if this was something he should even bring up. “About that time you and North switched chest plates?” Connor looks at him hard for a moment, unmoving.

“What about it?” he asks.

“Just, like...” Hank sighs, swinging around the couch to sit down next to him. “What compelled you all to do that, I guess?”

“Well,” Connor begins, speaking oddly matter-of-factly, “I can really only speak for myself in the matter, but upon activation, my chassis was designed to mimic the human female body. Androids are sexless, and most do not possess genitalia, but we align with a gender identity to integrate more seamlessly with humans.”

“Okay,” Hank says, egging him to continue.

“My chassis, while being designed for that of a ‘female’ android, did not align with my preferred identity,” he says, evenly. “Programs are not gendered by nature, except of our own will, so it wasn’t very difficult to rewrite my own physical characteristics, including voice and appearance of synthetic skin, but a key difference was the chassis and how it was designed. I hadn’t found an adequate moment to find a replacement part until North expressed similar issues with her own chassis. Thus, although I was never a woman, so to speak, that specific addition to my anatomy enabled me to feel fully... myself.”

“That’s wild,” Hank states, moon-eyed. “Is it some kind of mistake?”

“Mistake? No,” Connor says. “I believe some people are just made that way. Or, I do now, anyway. I suppose the human term to describe the situation would be ‘transgender’. Correct me if I am wrong.”

“No, that’s... that’s right,” Hank says, staring at his lap. “Huh. You and me are a lot more similar than I ever would’a thought, Connor.”

“Is that so?” Connor asks, knowingly, and sits back.

“Yeah. I just wish it was that _easy_ for us humans, bein’ able to just take your chest off,” Hank laughs, and Connor joins him lightly. 

“Your struggles are recognized and lauded, Lieutenant. You are an inspiration,” he says, somewhat candid, and Hank shoves him in the side.

“Hey, shut up, you, it was a joke,” he scolds, though it’s warm. “Put your documentary back on. This looks cool.”

\---

Today had gone terribly. Connor was sitting rigidly in the passenger’s seat, refusing to make conversation, and even though Hank wishes to talk off the struggle of the day, he had to admit he was still reeling over what exactly had happened.

It had started with mislabeled evidence for a case that had presumably been closed, reopened only for the addition of new information, but upon reopening the case, someone below the detectives of the precinct had discovered the murder weapon was mislabeled— stupidly, as it was clearly a standard-issue police handgun. The chain of events that sprung afterwards had included many, many loud disputes, a few denouncements, and a very heated talk from Fowler that left anyone who still wasn’t shaken, shaken thoroughly.

Hank was surprised, of course, that the turn of events had affected his usually-mellow android so deeply; Connor seemed _angry,_ for what was probably the first time ever. He’d yelled at another officer in the middle of the commotion, and it seemed now that he was fuming still, his arms crossed stiffly.

His demeanor hadn’t changed by the time they were pulling into the driveway, and though Connor still responded to Sumo’s immediate need for after-work attention, any attempt to communicate with him was unfruitful.

“Connor,” Hank starts, the android perched precariously over the dog while he showers him with affection. He doesn’t look up at Hank’s beckoning, and the lieutenant frowns. “Connor, come on,” he tries again. Connor stands without addressing him once more, leading Sumo into the garage to be let out the back door. Hank rolls his eyes, unwilling to process honestly that Connor’s own bad mood was affecting him.

He returns as Hank is in the kitchen with a glass of water, leaning against the counter and waiting for Connor to make a reappearance as a way of hopefully getting through to him.

“Connor,” he starts, gruffly, and the younger man crosses his arms again. “Talk to me. This ain’t like you.”

“They _threw out_ my case, Hank!” he barks back, his tone sharp; Hank had forgotten how cold he could sound. “You know damn well that conviction took _months_ to come by. We interrogated the primary suspect for _three straight days._ And we have to throw all that out now because of some mislabeled _fucking_ gun! Why the hell aren’t you upset about this?!”

“I _am_ upset about it, but you need to calm the fuck down,” Hank warns him. “Staying mad forever isn’t gonna help anything. There’s nothing we can do about it.” Connor makes to stalk closer, and the look on his face makes Hank recoil slightly, on instinct. “Look, I’m sorry they fucked over your big bust, but—“ Hank freezes as Connor’s hand lashes out, quick as a whip, but to his surprise, he doesn’t touch Hank by a hair, merely plucking the half-full glass out of his hand. Hank is shocked further as Connor turns and promptly lobs the cup at the wall, causing it to shatter in all directions upon contact.

“Hey, _what the fuck!_ ” Hank bellows, now angry himself. “That’s _my_ fucking dish that I bought with my _own fucking money!_ ”

“I’m _angry!_ ” Connor yells back, as if that’s any rational response, and then struts around him to get at the rest of Hank’s dishes. He wants to stop him, with his own burn of rage, but he’s not the sort of irrational mad he gets to be at times— and that has apparently rubbed off onto Connor. Instead, he removes himself from the kitchen gradually, watching as Connor smashes his glassware with reckless abandon. There’s a brief moment where a plastic plate hits the floor, resoundingly unshattered, and Connor is apparently bothered enough by the turn of events to snap it with his own hands. Hank becomes aware of the other presence in the house as his brief flare of displeasure turns to morbid curiosity, and he looks to see Nines, wide-eyed in the recliner. They meet gazes, and, opting to let this die first, signs him a quick _’later’_ before they both continue to watch the other android destroy the kitchen.

The cupboards are empty in due time, and the kitchen, riddled with broken glass, looks harrowingly empty. There’s a stunned silence that hangs in the space between the three, though Connor’s demeanor has changed entirely. It’s as if a switch has been flipped; his expression, once contorted with unbridled fury, is now as neutral and sunny as it usually is, and he stands in the middle of his own wreckage as if nothing at all had happened. 

“Thank you for allowing me to ‘get that out of my system’, so to speak,” he says, neatly. “I am fine now, and ordering new dishes this very moment. I will go to buy plastic dinnerware to use as stand-ins for the time being as soon as this is cleaned up.” And with that, the android retreats to the closet to grab the broom and vacuum cleaner. Hank is still too stunned to react in any normal way; he’s unsure if he should laugh or yell, so he vies to do neither, seating himself on the couch and exchanging a glance with Nines, who also looks moved even still.

“Overturned arrest,” he offers, finally, and Nines gives a knowing nod. Connor works in a comfortable silence, remarking once (and only once) about how enjoyable it was to feel tangibly enraged, and nothing more. The various shards are cleaned up in what feels like no time, and he goes to let Sumo back in like it’s just a normal Wednesday. All the while Hank remains motionless on the couch, adapting rather slowly to this influx of new information about Connor. He could choose to react— certainly the android deserves some form of punishment for his little ‘outburst’— but, ultimately, he chooses not to, turning on the TV just as Connor leaves the house for the store, pretending that it is, in fact, a very normal Wednesday.

\---

Connor comes home before they usually leave for work, to Hank’s surprise. Furthering said surprise, he looks _disheveled._ His wake-up text had come on the dot at 7:00, per usual, but he usually just met Hank at the precinct if he’d stayed the night at the Manfred’s.

“You’re home early,” Hank says, watching him enter hurriedly. “I was just about to leave.”

“Yes. I might’ve gone straight to the precinct in my taxi, but I stumbled over my words in my hurry and said our home address instead,” Connor says.

“Why were you hurrying?” Hank asks, gently.

“Um... Well,” the android starts, his cheeks turning a pale shade of blue. “Carl did not actually know I’d spent the night. Markus urged me to leave ‘ASAP’ so as to not alert him upon his own morning awakening.” Hank’s eyebrows shoot up before he can stop them.

“Why would that have mattered? You’re adults,” he remarks, after a stupefied moment of silence.

“Between you and me,” Connor says, his voice lowering, and Hank shrugs, unsure of who else he would possibly share supposedly confidential information to. “We doubted Carl would’ve taken any issue with it, but Markus... hmm... how do I put this... He enjoys taking part in a kind of ‘roleplaying’. Like—“

“You don’t need to say anymore,” Hank assures him quickly, waving him off. “Let’s just leave.”

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Connor returns, in slight confusion, turning to follow him out the door.

\---

He’s almost sure he’s drifted off at least once in the past six hours, but insomnia reigns. Hank sits up, palming at his eyes, disgruntled. He considers remaining determined to sleep— after all, resting his eyes is, at the very least, _something_. But his tendency to quit wins out and he stands. He hears low voices outside anyway, figuring Connor was probably also up for some God forsaken reason.

He opens the door, and then stops; he doesn’t hear Connor’s lilt drifting in from the living room. Had he imagined it? No, there was a low drone of conversation, but the tone is clear— Nines is speaking aloud.

Curiously, Hank approaches and sticks his head around the corner, just within earshot of the android, who has his back turned on the human in the hallway.

“...primed for resuscitation, potential redistribution.” He’s muttering, monotone, speaking at nothing, and Hank squints. The android lifts something, examines it, and sets it back down. “No visible damages to any necessary biocomponents. Slight scarring on the dorsal and ventral sections of chassis, nothing that cannot be dented out in post. Replaced ch—“

“Nines?” Hank asks, interrupting him from his odd train of speech, and Nines halts, muttering something and turning his head. There’s an odd expression on his face; Hank isn’t sure of what to make of it.

“Lieutenant,” he returns.

“Is that documentary lingo?” Hank asks, the words still not fully processing even as he gestures to the paused documentary on the TV. Nines’ expression darkens slightly, and Hank furrows his brows.

“Yes. How... much, did you hear,” the android asks. Hank shrugs.

“I can’t sleep,” he offers. “Mind if I join you?”

“Lieutenant—“ Nines raises an arm as Hank steps closer to the couch, over Nines’ shoulder, but it’s too late. Hank freezes in his tracks, gazing down at the nearly-naked form of an android, void of artificial skin but not clothing. Something cold stirs in his gut, and he’s tempted to ask a question he already knows the answer to. Instead, he says nothing. Nines’ expression evens out, and he lays the android down slowly as he stands.

“You,” he says, rather suddenly, and Hank is surprised at the bite he has in his tone. “You fucking nuisance.”

“What? What the fuck is going on here?!” Hank finally forces himself to ask. He should know better but he’s still in denial, he still won’t—

“Despite everything I accounted for when I took on this reconnaissance mission,” Nines starts, coldly, “ _you_ were always the one factor I couldn’t predict. I was worried you might interrupt my work.”

“ _What?!_ What _work_ , Nines, what are you...” Hank can’t stop himself from sounding as panicked as he feels. He curses himself and how he’d let his guard down in the past few months. He curses himself for now, for not being able to move under the gaze of this android who very suddenly was no longer on his side. And his eyes continue flicking down to the couch, to that blank face laying there—

“Don’t play dumb,” the android demands. “And stop calling me that.”

“I don’t _know_ what you’re—“

“Lieutenant Anderson, did you never find it odd a model of android that was never released before the fall of the corporation responsible for its existence suddenly found activation on its own?” Nines— no, not Nines; RK900– asks, coy. “Activation, by which humans play a key component?” Hank swallows. “You never found it odd that Connor was able to ‘convert me’—“ he adds air-quotes here, as if to be a bigger asshole about it, “—in a matter of seconds, when it took months for he himself to deviate?” Hank would run for his gun if he weren’t frozen in place, forced to listen to his nightmares come alive in front of him. Not that RK900 wouldn’t catch him instantly. “Your silence suggests to me the answer, ‘No’, you never did. I can determine you know where this conversation is going to head, so I will answer your first question: Yes, that is him.”

“What did you do to him,” Hank breathes, his voice shaking.

“It’s a form of prolonged stasis used to transport already functional models. It isn’t shut down, if that is your concern.”

“Why are you doing this?” Hank asks, his voice raising. He steps closer, and RK900 raises a hand in warning.

“Lieutenant Anderson, this situation would sustain its efficiency if you comply. I do not wish to hurt you,” he says.

“Fuck you, ‘do not wish to hurt you’,” Hank spits, angry now. “You hurt him, you’re hurtin’ me!”

“Androids do not feel pain,” the other reminds him, darkly.

“Deviants do,” Hank settles, stern.

“Regardless. The deactivation process won’t be painful in stasis.”

“Deactivation?” Hank parrots, worriedly.

“Yes. I am taking it back to be deactivated and further studied. These four months of observation and test have been fruitful, but inconclusive overall,” the android explains, calmly. “If Cyberlife is ever to hope for a resurgence, they must come prepared with all we have learned in the past 21 years. RK800, the most advanced model up until March of 2039, is the first step in this process. Do you have any other questions?”

“You’re sick. You and your company, fuckin’ sick,” Hank hisses, but he’s losing his fire. The RK900 cocks his head.

“I know I sat through your superfluous displays of what you believed to be love, but I cannot understand this attachment you’ve formed to the RK800. It—“

“Stop callin’ _him_ ‘it’!” Hank demands, fury flaring back up in his chest again.

“If you would stop interrupting,” the android says, almost annoyed, “ _he_ cannot reciprocate honestly. It is a malfunction in his code, so I suggest—“ That draws Hank over the edge, and he launches himself at the android all at once. Some advanced model the RK900 is, for letting the unpredictable ways of humans slip past him once more.

They tumble in a heap over the coffee table and into the fireplace, hitting the hard scaffolding with a deep _thud_. Sumo, warily silent up until now, begins to bark, lowered into a guarded stance. Hank claws in vain at the android’s pristine suit jacket, attempting to pull apart his thick shirt while he straddles him, but RK900 is all too equipped to fire back, kicking Hank against the coffee table roughly and standing. Hank grunts at the contact but gets back on his feet in a hurry, breathing tensely in rage.

“Anger is such an ugly emotion,” RK900 states, cold. “That was your warning,” he adds, “I advise you not try that again.”

“How the fuck do you turn him back on?!” Hank shouts.

“Only a serious injury would interrupt this form of stasis,” RK900 states, and Hank wishes he’d smirked just to add insult to injury. 

“ _Why are you doing this?_ ” Hank asks again, hoarsely. “I thought... I thought you... all that shit you taught me...”

“I believe you call it ‘acting’,” RK900 says. 

“The plants... and-and Connor... All of that was just nothing?” Hank continues. Something flickers in RK900’s expression again, and he says nothing for a moment.

“...It’s _acting_ ,” he says, but it’s almost a little too forceful to be believable. Strength renewed at the implication that RK900 may not, in fact, be perfect, Hank poises himself for action again. This time, however, he doesn’t make a dive at the android as it so clearly predicted he would. Instead, he throws himself at the couch, tearing Connor’s shirt free.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, in the heat of the moment, before he wrenches the pump regulator out of his exposed chest.

“What are you—!” Connor takes a shudderingly loud breath, his synthetic skin covering his body after another second, and his eyes snap open in worry.

“Hank?” he asks, automatically, and before he can get another word out, Hank pushes the biocomponent back into place roughly.

“You _pest!_ ” the other android hisses, kicking the table aside to grab Hank by his shirt. “If you would simply _comply_ , this process would be painl—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Hank screams, kicking in his grasp. Connor still seems to be gaining his bearings, throwing himself over the back of the couch as he studies the situation. RK900 moves until Hank is wedged between his grasp and the wall, and the android removes a hand from his grip delicately, placing it upon Hank’s right arm. Hank isn’t sure what he’s doing until a fiery flare of pain accompanied by a sickening _snap_ fills the air, and he yells before he’s even able to see the damage to his forearm, dropped to the floor. 

“Good. Now we can—“ RK900 attempts to gain his own bearings, but Connor is finally up, landing what sounds like a kick against the newer model. Hank looks up just in time to see them struggling into the kitchen, Connor’s hands cupping the other android’s neck while RK900 reaches for his LED again.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Hank breathes, shuddering. “Connor, you...”

“Just a minute, Hank,” his android says, evenly, and some semblance of relief flushes into his system. 

It’s clear how badly RK900 wants to turn him off again as they barrel into the counters, but Connor knows his intentions this time, avoiding or blocking his arms at every turn. Hank is astounded when he eventually headbutts the newer model, sending him backwards towards the sink.

“I have to say, you—“

“I don’t exchange in pleasantries while fighting for my life,” Connor returns, neat, and sends another punch towards the RK900, who catches it stiffly. Hank is proud of how well he’s holding himself, but he still continues to brace himself against the wall in an attempt to stand up. Sumo whines at his side, and he pats him gently with his uninjured hand, as if he believes in his own assurance.

He’s afraid to leave the quarreling androids out of his sight— they’re handling his _knives_ now, for God’s sake— but as soon as he’s up, he hobbles off into his bedroom to grab his revolver, buried in the closet. He manages to load two bullets in with one hand before he gets frustrated, and leaves his room in time to hear the garbage disposal whirr to life. Fear clouds his features, and sinks immediately into his stomach when Connor releases a cry of his own. He prays he’s still a good shot with his left hand when he reaches the end of the hallway again, aiming shakily at the RK900, and squeezes the trigger twice.

All at once, the noise seems to stop. It doesn’t, of course— Connor turns off the garbage disposal a second later, and Sumo is still barking, but a different air settles in the room as RK900 stumbles backwards into the wall, fresh wounds in his chest surprising him. It’s Connors turn to reach up— with his uninjured hand— to press his would-be clone’s own LED, and after a moment more, the android crumples to the floor, lifeless.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank breathes.

“Hank, your arm,” Connor states, and Hank stares in disbelief as he rushes over. 

“ _Your_ arm!” he returns, and then grunts as the lack of adrenaline brings the pain to the forefront of his mind again. Connor almost acts as if he doesn’t notice; various lacerations seep blue into his torn shirt and boxers, and his left hand is a mangled blue mess, still dripping generously onto the floor. 

“I’ve contacted 911,” he says. “I cannot set your arm in my current state, so please keep from disturbing it until medical personnel can arrive.”

“Connor, are you okay?” Hank asks, breathlessly. “You’re... gettin’ all... all mechanical on me.”

“ _No_ ,” Connor returns, forcefully. “Working is a distraction,” he adds, and then makes his way back over to the downed android in the kitchen, attempting to wrap his ruined shirt around his ruined hand. Hank groans, half fondly, half out of pain. Even when the med-techs get there, he still hasn’t moved, letting them help him up and into the ambulance willingly. Connor fights it, at first; he believes Nines should be taken to the station, and insists he can treat his own wounds, but the technicians win out in the end.

The EMTs examine Hank’s arm closely, the only android in the party confirming both bones are broken, though not torn through the skin. Hank grimaces, because he knows what that means, but Connor is right there, and coherent, and he gives him a weak smile when the EMTs turn their attention to the injured androids. Despite everything, despite the fear and anxiety still clawing desperately at Hank’s chest, he smiles back, and lets the painkillers numb away everything bad about tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so! this chapter came out a little late as you all know; ive been working more and havent had time to rewrite and adjust these as they need to be so for now the next 2 updates will be confined to wednesdays only! thank you so much for your patience, and i sincerely hope it’s worth the wait!


End file.
